


Full Term

by annabagnell



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alpha Sherlock, Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Angst, Discussion of Abortion, Drug Use, M/M, Mildly Dubious Consent, Mpreg, Non-Graphic Rape/Non-Con, Omega John, Omega Verse, Rape, Rape/Non-con Elements, Teacher-Student Relationship, warning: drug use, warning: rape
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-19
Updated: 2013-10-17
Packaged: 2017-12-24 00:52:58
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 18
Words: 46,093
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/933186
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/annabagnell/pseuds/annabagnell
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Many times, John would stop, sigh, and ask himself what he was doing. All of this, all of this business with having a baby was crazy. What would he even do once it was here? He contemplated the possibility of looking for couples who would be willing to adopt, but... he honestly didn't think he'd be able to live knowing his son or daughter was out there, somewhere, not knowing who he was. John was going to keep the baby, he knew.</p><p>A mistake made at the beginning of John Watson's second year of uni leaves both he and his chemistry professor, Sherlock Holmes, unsure of where to go next. Sherlock wants to be a part of John's pregnancy, but he's not sure how to go about it. And John's not sure he wants Sherlock there. Together, they come to a realization that should make everything easier...but will it?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Whoa whoa whoa - a multichapter fic? 
> 
> Yes yes yes, a multichapter fic!
> 
> The summary gives you a good idea of what's to come, so I suppose I won't rechronicle here. But expect heat sex, not heat sex, a lot of angst, more angst, quite a bit of angst really, and a fair share of fluff as well. And then more angst. 
> 
> We both hope you enjoy reading it as much as we enjoy writing it! Now complete.

The last box was unpacked, and John stood back to admire his work. Everything was organised and as it should be in his (laughably small) dorm room, though it most likely wouldn't stay that way. John would be busy this term, he knew that.

 

He was finally beginning classes that deviated from the rest of the university, ones that focussed on his major. He was going to be a doctor. He wasn't sure what area of medicine yet, but after a life of applying splints to injured teddy bears and rinsing out the cuts and bandaging the wounds of the neighbor kids, John Watson knew he was meant to be a doctor.

 

John carded a hand through his sandy hair and plopped down in his desk chair with a grin. He was excited for this year to begin. He would conquer all of his classes, like he did last year. Sure, he was in school with some of the richest, most posh young adults in the nation, but that didn't dampen his spirits. John was brighter than the lot of them, and his numerous scholarships to such a prestigious academy showed just that. He was proud of himself, and he hoped to show his father and sister just what he could do.

 

John opened his laptop, clicking out of the document that was his makeshift journal, and opened up the tab that was his class schedule. The class load wasn't as heavy as he'd anticipated; biology with a lab, medicinal health, Latin in medicine, et cetera.

 

The thing John was afraid would kick his arse, however, was the year-long, two-part, three-day-a-week course on advanced organic chemistry. God, that just _sounded_ terrifying. Not to mention the professor was supposedly the most snide, stuck-up, difficult teacher on staff this term. John could handle it, he knew. At most, he could just avoid the professor at all costs if he rubbed him the wrong way.

 

John exhaled and sat back, staring at the Monday-Wednesday-Friday class, scheduled first thing in the morning. He could get through it fine, he was confident. It was going to be just the same as last year, after all.

 

* * *

 

 

Another school year beginning. 

 

Dull. 

 

It wasn't always dull, this teaching, but there were very few exceptions to the rule. The last time a student had truly interested him had been the young woman in his advanced Chemistry course three terms ago, the one who showed up to class every day but was never consistent between her writing style or her interactions with other students. Sherlock had raised his suspicions to the board of directors, and within a few hours they'd found her identical twin sleeping in her apartment. 

 

Sherlock had given the class roster a perfunctory glance before he left his office. Several scholarship students, as usual, but Sherlock would expect no less than the best from them. Students who arrived at university on scholarship were much harder workers, he'd observed, though their hard work didn't always make up for their lack of knowledge and technical experience. 

 

He stopped by the lounge on the way in, poured a cup of cooling, overbrewed coffee, and made sure all of his papers were tucked away inside his case. Just syllabi today, boring as that particular lecture always was. Fresh-faced, eager students taking diligent notes in the margins, as though the syllabus wasn't clear-cut and free of mystery to begin with. Due dates for papers, presentations, and exams were spelled out in black and white. 

 

Sherlock took no nonsense when it came to excuses. University-approved doctors' note, presented in person. He could always tell unerringly which students thought they could pull the wool over his eyes. It was too obvious, really; he'd been the one to place the Google listing for the imaginary clinic just off the university campus. If that was the name that showed up on the note, it was an automatic failure for all assignments missed. 

 

Sherlock pushed open the door to the lecture hall and flipped on the lights. The fluorescent bulbs hummed as they started up, illuminating the stadium seating that would soon be filled with eager medical students. He slowly walked down the stairs to the pit in the centre and slid his bag off his shoulder. Turning to face the as of yet empty seats, he prepared himself for another term of classes. Teaching, instructing, watching comprehension dawn on young faces. It was always a fun game, picking which students would return to his class and which would drop it for another term; which would fail and which would succeed. Which would just slide by, grades barely high enough to merit a passing grade. 

 

The term would start with 150 students. 

 

If Sherlock was lucky, he'd have 80 sit the final exam.

 

Let the school term begin. 

 

* * *

 

 

"Shit," John hissed, tumbling out of bed ungracefully. God, how could he have slept in so late? His first class was in 15 minutes, and he'd just woken up.

 

John threw on a t-shirt and jeans before topping it off with a hoodie and slipping painfully into his trainers. He briefly mussed with his short blond fringe as he studied himself in the mirror, arm raised in a wing as he applied deodorant. No time to brush teeth, he simply slid a mint into his mouth and worked it with his tongue, grabbing his rucksack, chemistry books (even though he wouldn't need them today), and took off down the hall, barely enough time to lock the door behind him.

 

John accidentally bumped into a girl, looked back and gave a sheepish apology.

 

The fact of the matter was, he was one of the few boys in the girl's end of the dormitories; he was an Omega. With his gender brought oppression and disadvantages, but John didn't dwell on it. He was always as rough and strong as the other boys in his classes. He had no interest in cooking or having babies, there was much more to do, so much he could accomplish, and despite the hardships, John had proved himself, and here he was.

 

He glanced down to his watch as he entered the building and sighed in relief. He still had three minutes before class began. Good. He didn't want to be on any professor's bad side, this one in particular…especially if he was anything like others had described. 

 

John fixed his now-sweaty hair and slowed to a walk before entering the big lecture hall, already filled with nearly a hundred students. He looked around, spotting Mike Stamford (not really a friend, but a friendly bloke nonetheless), and gave a wave before sitting in the desk beside him. "Hey, mate," he said, out of breath.

 

Then a long, baritone throat clearing snapped him to attention.

 

* * *

 

"Good morning," Sherlock began. "If you can call it that. There are at least fourteen of you that overslept. I recommend setting multiple alarms in the mornings, I do not tolerate lateness. You are here when class starts, and the doors will be locked promptly at 8:30 a.m. Speaking of," he continued, and strode out from behind his podium and began climbing the stairs. "You are all adults. I expect you to be fully present during class, both physically and mentally. If you are ill, do not come to class. I do not want your viruses, and neither do your cohorts. More on this later. No loo breaks permitted during lecture, true emergencies only during lab. More on this later as well.

 

Those of you with laptops out, fine. Look to the rear of the classroom." As the students turned, Sherlock took inventory. Typical class, split half and half males and females. Mostly Betas and Alphas, several Omega females and…one Omega male. Interesting. Sherlock cleared his throat and continued. "Mirrors. Don't think I can't distinguish Facebook from a Word document. Should you be clever enough to format your Facebook to look like a Word document, I sincerely hope it's worth the time and effort to check your notifications during class. Spend more time on homework."

 

Sherlock passed several stacks of syllabi to the students in the front row and instructed them to pass said papers back. He began the oh-so-boring procedure of explaining the syllabus, only pausing a few times to answer inane questions from obvious do-good students. 

 

As he glossed over the document, Sherlock deduced. He could tell easily which were the scholarship students. As if it weren't obvious by their state of dress, they were the students who looked the most intimidated by him. With the exception of the one Omega male, who seemed more eager than scared. Interesting. 

 

"I shan't go over the whole document in detail, presumably you all possess the ability to read considering you've made it this far into your education. Moving swiftly along, do any of you have burning questions that need answered at the present time?"

 

Nobody raised their hand, so Sherlock wrapped up his first-day speech. "This is an important class. You will get nowhere in the field of medical studies if you do not understand chemistry. It is the basis, indeed, of science, and thus a building block of proper medicine. If you struggle, find someone to help. My office hours are listed, I am here to serve and teach. You may find study groups useful. You _will_ need to study. Unless you are terribly gifted, you will not pass my class with even the lowest semblance of a good grade if you do not study. 

 

I am dismissing class early today and today only. If you have any personal problems that pertain to your ability to learn in this class, disabilities or otherwise, after dismissal or during office hours today is the time to discuss those. If nobody has any further questions, class is dismissed. I'll see you on Friday." 

 

Chatter began once more and Sherlock dropped his attention from his students, affecting a posture of disinterest and shuffling papers into stacks to put back into his case. He doubted anyone would come forward to see him just now; he might get a few stragglers later in the day. 

 

He looked up one last time and saw that lone Omega male staring at him. He quirked a brow, stared back for a moment, then dropped his gaze. Strange.

 

* * *

 

Wow.

 

The man standing before him, this professor, shouldn't belong in a classroom. He belonged on a bloody runway.

 

Even as the class was dismissed, John remained, completely enraptured with this man. The carefully selected suit, the perfectly groomed hair, he could see the curve of his cheekbones from a mile away. This man was no professor, he was some sort of thoughtfully sculpted Greek god.

 

John swallowed thickly when he finally processed the bustling of students leaving, and realised he was the only one still sitting. Snapping out of his trance, he stood, and looked away abashedly. God, he hadn't heard a word the professor had said. He'd have to look over the syllabus later.

 

John licked his lips as he met the eyes of Professor Holmes yet again, and his face felt _hot_. God, no, he couldn't...

 

Suddenly, he found himself approaching the professor, and he froze, being in such a close proximity. Christ, it should have been criminal to /smell/ that fantastic. John licked his lips and blinked, then processed how dumb he must've looked. "U-uh, hi, John... Watson," he stuttered before giving a small smile and extended a hand awkwardly. "Pre-med, but... you know that already." God, could he muck this up anymore? "I just wanted to stop and say that I'm really looking forward to the class. And I hope that you'll find my work satisfactory, if not, hopefully, good work."

 

Jesus, what was he even saying?

 

It was then John realised he still had his hand extended, and unshaken, and retracted it awkwardly.

 

* * *

 

Unprecedented. 

 

He'd heard rumours of the overeager, born-to-please med student, but thought it was a myth. Yet here he stood, and Sherlock noticed belatedly that he had a hand out to shake. Just as the student - John. John Watson - began to pull it back, Sherlock extended his own, clasped John's warm fingers in his own cool ones and shook. 

 

"Sherlock Holmes," he said, hardly realizing he'd ignored the teacher/student boundary in inviting the boy to use his first name. "You're a scholarship student. An Omega, which is interesting. Second year. One of the fourteen who overslept this morning." Sherlock tilted his head back, took in the boy's appearance. His gaze slid up and down, finally coming to rest on John's eager face. "I've no doubt your work will be more than satisfactory, John." 

 

He released John's hand, having held it for much longer than he really should've, and cleared his throat. "Is there. Erm. Is there anything I can help you with, John?" Students don't just come up to introduce themselves and make a good first impression on the first day of class. 

 

Except, apparently, for this student. 

 

Interesting.

 

John slipped both of his hands into his pockets, as if tucking away the electric feeling of the professor's hand in his own and saving it for later.

 

He blinked and looked up at the man. "I, well... I don't want to make it seem like you'd be judgmental, but I'm hoping my, er... gender doesn't make you see me any differently than any other student. I had a professor last year that liked to constantly point it out, and... I dunno, he made it seem like I was a lesser being than the others."

 

John pursed his lips and looked away, before squaring his shoulders, still curious as to why talking to Professor Holmes had dissipated his confidence. "I just want you to know that my being an Omega isn't... it isn't an issue, or it shouldn't be. I don't need any special treatment or accommodations, or pity, or extra time. I'm the same as everyone else." John said firmly, eyes locking with... Sherlock's. "And I'm going to work my arse off, I can tell you that now." He blanched, realising he'd just swore in front of his teacher.

 

A smirk rose to Sherlock's face before he could tamp it down. 

 

"I apologise if my remarking on your gender seemed a bias. Rest assured that I do not judge my students on their presentation. I expect the same from you as I do from the female Alphas and the male Betas. A student is a student. I have no doubt that you will…'work your arse off.'" Sherlock smirked. "Nevertheless, you…well." Sherlock coughed. He'd very nearly said something nice to the boy. To…John. "I appreciate that you had the…bravery to come forth. I am certain you will do well in my class if you work hard and meet my expectations. Good day, John Watson." Sherlock nodded curtly and turned away.

 

He was almost flirting with this student. He was almost flirting with this student. He was almost flirting with this student. He smelled…

 

Sherlock whirled around and found that John was still standing in front of him, looking slightly bewildered and uncomfortable. "John, are you on suppressants?"

 

John blinked, a bit put off by such a question. Of course he was on suppressants, it was dangerous to go to university without them. It was a bloody death wish, actually.

 

"I-- What? Yes, I--" 

 

Oh Christ. He hadn't had time to take his pill that morning.

 

No wonder the professor had smelled so good. Still did.

 

No wonder John was hard as a diamond. He'd been too enveloped in the... _Alpha's_ eyes to notice.

 

John was warm.

 

Too warm.

 

"Oh, God. I... I-I need to get back..."

 

But his feet were firmly planted on the tile floor, and wouldn't allow him to move.

 

He couldn't go into heat right now, it didn't work like that, and certainly not that quickly.

 

"Excuse me," John blurted, trying to run past Professor Holmes.

 

"John, no, stop. You can't go outside, there are too many Alphas that might scent you and accost you." Sherlock ran a few strides, reached out and grasped John's upper arm, bringing his student to a halt. "I can…I won't…let me help you," he said, reining in his sudden desire. Pulses of heat seemed to radiate from his hand where it was in contact with John's feverish skin. "I can control myself, I'm capable, I can help you," Sherlock said, aware that it sounded more like he was offering to breed John than it was to escort the student back to his rooms. "I…" he trailed off, fighting his self control. It was withering with each second he hung onto John. "I…"

 

John was starting to go into a panic. His breathing grew heavy, and now this strong Alpha was holding him firmly. Sherlock was right, though. He couldn't just run off in front everyone.

 

God, why was he so _hot_? It couldn't be heat, it couldn't...

 

John blinked rapidly and looked up to meet the professor's eyes - bright just a second ago, now dark with pupils blown wide.

 

"I... I need to get back to my room... Can you take me? Please. O-or get someone who can, I..."

 

"I can take you," Sherlock said, his voice gone unexpectedly low and gravelly with lust. He blinked a few times and shook his head, trying to clear it. "You smell…too…ripe. We need to cover the scent, at least until you get back to your rooms. Here, I…" Sherlock hesitated just a moment and then pulled John close, letting the body-to-body contact envelop John's pheromones in his own, neutralizing the scent.

 

Good an idea as that had been, Sherlock was suddenly hard as diamonds and could hardly tear himself away from John. Stepping back and biting back a pained groan, he squeezed his eyes shut and spoke. "That should cover you for a few minutes. Follow me." Sherlock moved as quickly as he could, holding onto John's clammy hand and pulling him along behind. "Damned biological responses. I apologise, John, I…" He chanced a glance back and saw how red and flushed John had gone, how erect his student obviously was. "We'll get you back to your room, and then…" he trailed off, unsure how to reassure his student.

 

John didn't know what was happening. All he knew was that for a moment, he was flush against an Alpha that was perfectly able to service him, and was - God - nearly as hard as he was.

 

He only followed; he only followed and held onto Sherlock, trying to focus on anything but the warmth that was engulfing his body and mind, and the wetness starting to make itself known in his pants.

 

John didn't know how long it took, but once in the Omega dormitory building, it was his turn to lead, taking Sherlock to his room.

 

He didn't even process, that at that point, he didn't need the man's assistance any longer.

 

John fumbled with his keys, panting, before pushing into his room and locking the door behind him, himself and Sherlock Holmes sealed inside. The student collapsed on his bed and his toes curled in his shoes as he processed just what was happening.

 

He _was_ going into heat. And there was now a very attractive, very capable, very adult Alpha in his proximity.

 

"Thank you," John breathed, looking over to the teacher with half-lidded eyes. 

 

He shoved a hand into his crotch and gasped at the contact. He didn't have any toys on hand; he hadn't expected to go into heat at school. He was typically very responsible and consistent with taking his suppressants. Why did he gave to bugger up now?

 

"Sh-- Professor, I need... go get the Beta nurse, she can give me a suppressant shot, that's-- Aah!" John cried out as his fingers trailed down to his clothed, wet hole of their own accord.

 

"Oh, John," Sherlock breathed, watching as John writhed on his bed, touching himself through damp clothes. He took a few steps forward and then stopped himself, hands fisting and twisting at his sides as he tried to restrain himself. 

 

His mind was racing. He wanted this boy, and he couldn't discern logical want from biological want. John was attractive, seemed intelligent, was presumably hardworking, and was dripping wet and in heat. He'd had his eyes glued on Sherlock the entirety of the lecture, staring him down with desire in his eyes. Had John been in heat then, or was he actually attracted to Sherlock? The professor knew that, objectively, he was good-looking, but he'd never been in a relationship that lasted longer than the duration of a quick fuck. 

 

"John," he said through gritted teeth, "I can walk away now to get the Beta nurse and leave you alone, but I…want…you," he said, eyes squeezed shut as he whispered his shameful admission. "I'm an Alpha, you're an Omega, and my mind is telling me I need to take you. Tell me to go, and I'll go. But tell me to stay…" he fisted his hands at his sides again. "Tell me to stay," he whispered, his body trembling with want and his mind screaming that this was wrong, this was so wrong, he couldn't do this with a student...

 

John's breath hitched when the beautiful man before him told him he /wanted/ him, he wanted to stay, he wanted to /take him/. Professor Holmes wanted him.

 

This was so wrong. His teacher wanted to fuck him, and he wanted to be fucked by this perfect specimen. John knew just how inappropriate it was. He could be suspended for even allowing a teacher into his private rooms.

 

John was a good lad. He always had been. Hardly did he break a rule, unless it was for a good reason, something he could validate. This, this was wrong on all accounts, and he knew the decision he wanted to make would never be the right move.

 

But good God, he needed him.

 

"Stay," John whined, "stay, please, I... It'll go quicker if I... have someone..." He locked eyes with Sherlock, his expression inviting, and he unashamedly pulled down his pants and jeans to release his aching cock.

 

John began fisting his leaking prick, eyes wide and dilated as he stared at Professor Holmes' perfect lips, and then the rest of him. And he waited.

 

Sherlock took a deep breath and closed his eyes for just a moment. 

 

John wanted him. 

 

"Condoms, John, you must have them somewhere." Sherlock growled, opened his eyes, and watched as the young man before him stroked his already leaking cock. Sherlock's prick was hard in his own pants, engorged with blood and sending messages to his brain that he needed to bury himself deep in John's body as soon as possible, fill him up and claim the Omega. Put his seed inside John's womb, make a baby. "Condoms," he rumbled again, nearly vibrating with desire.

  

After a moment, John shook his head. Of course he didn't have any condoms. He wasn't having sex, no one wanted to have sex with him, and the other way around. He wasn't with anyone. He wasn't at university to get laid, he was at university to learn a skill.

 

"N-no," John breathed, "don't have condoms."

 

John slipped another hand down his body, and past his cock and balls, a finger probing at his eager, soaking entrance. "A-ah, Sher--!" He cut off, not entirely sure if it was all right to cry out his professor's first name.

 

Sherlock stopped in his tracks. "No condoms? John, I can't…you might have a baby, if I don't have a condom." John shook his head. It didn't seem to matter. 

 

"Sherlock, Sherlock, need you... Need you in me, _please_."

 

They'd deal with the consequences later. 

 

Sherlock quickly tore off his suit jacket, undid his belt and pushed his trousers down around his ankles. Pulling them off and tossing them aside, he strode over to John's bed, clambering on and gripping John's trousers and yanking them off as well. 

 

John's cock was red and hard, and his entrance dripping and swollen. He smelled so good, so ripe, Sherlock had to - 

 

Taking only seconds to grasp John's thighs and push his legs up, Sherlock lined himself up with the younger Omega and pushed in.

 

"Haah!" John cried out, his back arching off the bed as his bloody fantastic teacher entered him so suddenly.

 

He was so _full_. He'd used toys during heats before, various dildos and vibrators, but he'd never had the pleasure of being penetrated by a full Alpha cock. John curled his fingers into his sheets and stared up at the ceiling with wide eyes. His cock jumped in response, flicking against the soft cotton dress shirt still clad on Professor Holmes' chest.

 

John panted and moaned, and Sherlock wasn't even moving yet. The whole sensation was so overwhelming, and sated all of his desires, at least for a short time. "M-move, please, move in me..."

 

"Have to…wait," Sherlock breathed, feeling John's body seize around him. The boy wasn't ready yet, needed time to adjust. "Have you. Had sex before? In or. Out of heats." Sherlock raised his head, looked his student in the eye, searching for the answer before John volunteered it.

 

John practically sobbed with each breath, his toes curling. He fluttered his sphincter experimentally around the length that already had him pulled wide, and groaned in satisfaction. Yes, it hurt a little, but it was what his body was begging for.

 

"Y-yes. A few times, outside of heat, never... never had a heat with anyone before," John explained, licking his lips and giving a light thrust up onto the professor. "Always protected. Never felt so good. Never had an Alpha... God, need you, need you, please move, please... Feels so _good_..."

 

"Okay, John. Relax, I don't want…to hurt you." Sherlock braced himself with one hand on John's rib cage and gave one slow push, gauging John's reaction. When the boy moaned and tightened around him, Sherlock pulled out and then pushed back in once more, going as slowly as he could bear to acclimatize John to an Alpha cock. 

 

His Alpha brain was screaming that John had been taken before, by someone other than himself. That he needed to claim John for his own, bite down on his neck until he broke the skin, marking him. Sherlock fought against the desire, ramping up his pace as he felt John writhe beneath him.

 

John gave a long, low moan as Sherlock began thrusting into him, finally. He grasped at his teacher's shirt, and draped one leg over his back, bringing him in closer. "Perfect," he breathed, "perfect."

 

John was having an internal argument with himself that dissuaded him from thinking Sherlock's prick was _made_ for him. "Yes, yes, please, keep going. So big, h-how... how are you so big, it's so _tight_ ," John gasped.

 

"You have _no idea_ ," Sherlock groaned, barely biting back a lewd comment about how small and tight John's arse was. "Wait until…I knot," he continued. "You'll know what full is, then." 

 

Sherlock continued his set rhythm for a few more moments, until it was clear that John wouldn't be able to take his knot this way. He pulled out slowly, shushing John's protests, and lay down on the bed, pushing John up to kneel. God, the boy was _dripping_ fluids, lubrication running down his thighs from his spasming hole. "Ride me," Sherlock managed, pulling John roughly to straddle his hips.

 

John wasted no time in lowering himself down onto Sherlock's cock as if it were his throne, a god-given right to sit upon him. The boy bore down just slightly, so he could get to the very hilt of the man's hips, and gave a startled shout when he felt the blunt head nudge his prostate.

 

He braced his hands on Sherlock's chest and began bobbing up and down eagerly, his face scrunched up in pain, pleasure, and concentration. John found a quick rhythm and movement of his hips that drove him crazy, and bit down on his lip to stifle his excited cries.

 

God, he wanted this man's knot. He wanted to be full, he wanted to be claimed, he wanted _everything_.

 

John was fucking himself on Sherlock's cock. John was fucking himself on Sherlock's cock. _John was fucking himself on Sherlock's cock and he'd never felt anything more incredible in his life._

 

The boy rode him like it was the most natural thing in the world, angling his body so that he could pleasure himself without Sherlock doing any work at all. He could sit back and watch John impale himself over and over, listen to his muffled noises and take it all in. But he didn't want that. 

 

Sherlock reached forward and took John by the hips, starting to thrust his own pelvis up in time with the boy's movements. "That's right, John. Take my cock."

 

John's entire body went rosy, and his cock had quite the response to such a demand from that throat of dark chocolate.

 

John came. He came hard and suddenly, spurting all over his own hoodie and Sherlock's white shirt, all while still impaling himself.

 

But he wasn't done.

 

John came, and he wanted more. This man could make him come a second time, he knew. He hissed and groaned with the hypersensitivity, his forehead dripping with sweat as he met Sherlock's eyes again, still thrusting away without barely a stutter.

 

"More, I want more, not done yet, please, God, don't stop, _never_ stop!"

 

"I'll knot you soon, John. We're not done yet." Sherlock grunted and kicked up the pace, feeling his own desire building in his belly and fueling his knot. His flesh began to swell slowly, more and more with each thrust. His thrusts were shallow now, only moving the top half of his prick in and out of John's tight entrance. The inflating knot pressed against John's hole but didn't breach it, teasing and then retreating. 

 

"Bear down. Tell me when you're ready."

 

John could feel that he was pressing against something growing beneath him, his mind supplying it was Sherlock's prick, inflating for him, ready to knot him. John squeeze his legs tight against Sherlock's hips to steady himself, and brought his chin to his chest, riding out a few more thrusts.

 

"Read-- Ohh!"

 

The moment John bore down, the thick knot at the base of Sherlock's cock was breaching him completely, his body stretching to accommodate, only to squeeze around it once it was fully inside. He gave a few jerks of movement, the knot still swelling inside of him, and his mouth hung open, in awe, pleasure, barely able to process what was happening.

 

"Oh, God, Sherlock!"

 

"Christ, _John_ ," Sherlock moaned, and then he was coming, his prick pulsing inside John and spilling ounce after ounce of come into the Omega's fertile womb. His whole body shook beneath John's, and as he watched the Omega's face was wrought with pleasure. 

 

The fat knot continued to fill and stretch John as Sherlock orgasmed, and each noise the Omega made prolonged Sherlock's pleasure. He'd never come so hard or so much in his lifetime, and the feeling was intoxicating. His grip on John's hips never lessened, his fingers were tight on the boy's pelvis and white-knuckled. 

 

His cock gave one last pulse inside John and then he was done for the time being, knot still fully inflated and firmly stuck in John's body, holding his semen inside to ensure John's body would conceive. 

 

Sherlock wasn't wearing a condom. 

 

He swore and clapped a hand across his eyes. John wouldn't come back to himself for a few more minutes, and Sherlock needed time to think. He closed his eyes, body still sparking with the aftershocks of pleasure, folded his hands beneath his chin and thought.

 

After riding out what John was sure was a dry orgasm, his body sagged and he lowered himself down onto the fantastic man who'd just given him possibly the best sex he'd ever have in his life. He twitched on occasion, feeling the Alpha's knot throb, his own cock giving a stutter of interest before deflating again; John was much too tired for another go.

 

After a few minutes of silence, and hormones flooding out of his system, John looked up and blanched, his moral compass obviously in operation again.

 

"O-oh, fuck," John wheezed, but was too stunned to move. He was still connected to Sherlock - his _teacher_ \- anyway. "Did we...?" Well, clearly they did.

 

He'd just had the most fantastic sex of his life with a _teacher_ he'd known for hardly an hour.

 

John swallowed thickly and took several deep breaths to calm himself. "I-I... I'm so sorry, I'm so sorry, this is my fault, I... you can tell the dean this was my fault, I... I was i-irresponsible, and... Oh, God, oh, God."

 

"Calm down, John," Sherlock admonished, his hands still steepled under his chin. The Omega currently impaled on his cock was panicking, and Sherlock wasn't good with panicky students. He usually sent them to the nurse's station for antidepressants if they broke down during office hours. This was slightly different. This one was stuck on his prick. 

 

"There's no need to tell the Dean, obviously. Anyone who heard will think you rode out the heat with a partner, they have no cause to think it was me. And if there's a baby - well, let's be honest, of course there's a baby, I'm virile and you're obviously fertile - you'll just have an abortion. This was one time, no one need know." 

 

No. No, no, no, no, that's not what Sherlock was supposed to say. He was supposed to tell John it was all fine, that there was no cause for worry as Sherlock would be there for him or some such nonsense. Alpha professors didn't just take Omega students home to fuck them through heats.

 

John sat up and looked at Sherlock with a horrified expression. "A-abort--" He couldn't even bring himself to the word. He tentatively laid a hand instinctively over his stomach, still staring at the other, and completely... lost.

 

"Baby," John echoed. "I--"

 

Sherlock was right, of course. No one could know about this instance, and a baby, a _pregnancy_ would just be... evidence.

 

And clearly the teacher didn't care the least bit for making him feel better about the situation.

 

John, hurt, lowered his eyes, his face hard and grim; he looked as if he had aged ten years in that moment. "Yeah. Yeah, you're right, just. I'll... take care of it, Professor Holmes."

 

"See to it that you do." As soon as Sherlock could pull out of John's spent body, he did, and gave John a perfunctory check for bleeding or tears. Finding none, he used several tissues to wipe himself clean, glancing over at John, who was lying sideways on the bed looking utterly tormented.

 

Sherlock pulled his pants and trousers back on, tucking his somewhat wrinkled and sullied shirt into the waistband and cinching it tight. "I'm…I hope you realise that I did not intend to take advantage of you. I do apologise for my behavior, John. I'll see you in class Friday." Sherlock retreated, leaving John alone, closing the door behind him. 

 

Oh, jesus. Oh, christ, what had he done? Fucked a student, an Omega in heat, left him with a baby in his belly and all sorts of mental havoc. His mind was swirling. He could lose his job, he could be ousted from academia, he could lose it all because he felt some ridiculous attraction to one of his students. Oh, jesus. Oh, christ. 

 

Sherlock fled the dorms and strode as quickly as he could back to his apartment. He'd fucked a student, and now he felt attached. He could not be attached to a student. He was a respectable man, with a respectable job. He'd fucked up royally. It had been dubious consent at best, biological more than logic, not to mention legality issues. They were both adults, but a professor and a student…

 

Never mind. It didn't matter. John seemed like a level-headed boy. He understood what had happened, he'd asked for it. Legitimately. Begged Sherlock to stay. He understood the consequences. He could deal. 

 

He could deal.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: Discussion of abortion, references to drug use.

John shouldn't have been so surprised when Sherl-- when _Professor Holmes_ left him alone.

 

But it still hurt.

 

He'd spent several hours simply lying in his bed, not caring that he'd missed the rest of his classes that day. John curled up beneath his sheets, half naked and cold, eyes unfocused on the beige wall in front of him.

 

What was he thinking? Why on earth would he even think allowing an Alpha _teacher_ to service him during a heat. Unprotected. God, how much of an idiot _was_ he? He supposed, at the end of the day, that he was just what everyone said: livestock. A mindless animal used for breeding.

 

After falling into a fitful sleep, John woke in the wee hours of the morning, finding his hand on his still sensitive cock. He masturbated, remembering what it felt like to ride on Sherlock Holmes' long, thick cock. Moments after his orgasm dissipated, John scrubbed a hand over his face, giving in and dry-sobbing in guilt.

 

After everything... After such a foolish act, after being abandoned, after no emotions being mutually shared - and John reasoned the man was incapable of proper emotion - John still wanted Sherlock.

 

He hated himself for it.

 

John kept his eyes down in his book when he went to chemistry. He heard and comprehended lessons about the breakdown of amino acids and blood glucose, but he could only feel that chocolate voice vibrating his own name into his ear. _That's right, John. Take my cock. I'll knot you soon, John._

 

The boy did his best to forget about what happened, and return his life to normal. He accepted that his heat with Sherlock was just an extraordinary, agonizing memory. There was no sense dwelling on it. It was just that once. John felt better. He smiled more when he was with his friends. But he never felt quite like he did before the first day of school; he felt empty.

 

Then it occurred to John, four weeks into the school year, that there was something he needed to check.

 

He didn't need to. He already knew, he could just _tell_. Three white sticks clad with two blue lines each only provided proof.

 

Abortion. Professor Holmes had brought it up immediately. And to be fair, John conceded, it was the simplest option; the best and the smartest. John couldn't have a baby, he was nineteen and hadn't even really started his life yet. He certainly couldn't be a single parent, either. He could hardly afford college, a child was another matter entirely.

 

Expecting Sherlock to take their child was out of the question entirely.

 

The child wouldn't have a happy life. John couldn't provide for it, and Sherlock didn't want it. Abortion it was. Appointment in two weeks. It was the best option for everyone.

 

He shouldn't have gone on the field trip.

 

He didn't have much of a choice, however. Undecided medicine majors were expected to be in attendance. It was to give med students an opportunity to explore the different areas of the hospital, and ask questions about the jobs from professional cardiologists, neuro-surgeons, physical therapists, and the like.

 

John should have excused himself from the neonatal unit for a loo break.

 

John shouldn't have stood in the front of the group where he could be called on for assistance.

 

The baby, a 4 week old girl, was coming off of the breathing tube, permanently. The neonatal nurse asked for him to put on a pair of gloves and hold her hands as she removed it, since apparently the infant was 'a squirmy thing'. John shouldn't have agreed to holding those tiny, fragile hands.

 

Those tiny, fragile hands squeezing his fingers, and cobalt blue eyes squinting up, straight at him.

 

And John watched in awe, eyes wide, as the baby girl coughed and drew in her first unassisted breath. Watched as life became self-sustaining, and a beautiful, new person stuck out her tongue and kicked her legs, holding onto a lost boy's fingers with a vice grip.

 

A magnificent creature much like this was currently forming in his belly.

 

The abortion with his andrologist, that night, became rescheduled for two weeks later, and became his first prenatal appointment.

 

John could do this on his own. He was strong enough. He didn't need help, he knew, deep down, that he was meant to do this, to have this baby. He would figure it out.

 

The whoosh-whoosh of a fast-paced, minuscule, brand new heart that met his ears through a machine was permanently ingrained in his heart, and was his lullaby until Wednesday. The life-changing appointment had been early on Monday, and he'd had to miss chemistry. Luckily, he had a signed note to excuse his absence.

 

When Professor Holmes asked for Monday's assigned work, John had been prepared and wrote out the equations flawlessly, and he waited patiently as everyone brought their papers up to the teacher's desk. He waited until the last student was walking out of the door before standing up and approaching Professor Holmes with a confident air. He might not even say a word. He wasn't sure what he'd say anyway.

 

John slid his paper into the tray, before pulling out another slip of paper, and placing it in front of the quiet, skeptical professor, and watched as he read.

 

* * *

 

When Sherlock edged out of the dormitory that Wednesday morning, he was trying desperately to reason his way out of what had essentially been a rape. There was consent. The element of consent was there, Sherlock had told John he would leave but John had asked him - begged him - to stay. It wasn't rape, it wasn't rape. He wanted Sherlock to fuck him, bugger the consequences. 

 

He made his way back to the classroom to pick up his briefcase and papers, abandoned in his haste to get John away. As he shuffled the leftover syllabi back into some semblance of order, he tried desperately to keep his mind away from what had just happened with John. He succeeded in keeping it from the forefront of his mind, but the thought was there for days, buzzing in the back of his brain. 

 

John was in class on Friday, dressed and cleaned up and obviously recovered from his heat. Sherlock avoided his gaze the entire lecture, and each lecture subsequent, until he managed to school himself into an impassive expression, revealing no regret or sign of distress. 

 

Weeks passed. Weeks in which Sherlock was certain, absolutely certain, that John had taken care of the foetus. The…baby. Fully believing that John had gotten rid of it, that there was no foetus. There was no baby. 

 

Fully believing it, until John set the paper down in front of him. 

 

Until he was wrong.

 

A doctors' note. 

 

A _legitimate_ doctors' note. 

 

A legitimate doctors' note from an OB-GYN excusing John for a prenatal assessment. 

 

Sherlock's blood ran cold and his hands shook as he set the trembling paper down on the desk. He looked up at his student, who stood stock-still and confident in front of him. John's hand was hovering just over his stomach. 

 

"Six and a half weeks." Sherlock said, voice quivering. "You didn't get rid of it. _Why didn't you get rid of it,_ " he asked, nearly pleading. "You were supposed to get rid of it." 

 

Sherlock put his head in his hands, tears of fear threatening to spill from his eyes. Oh, god. There was a small group of cells growing and developing inside his student, cells that contained half his DNA. A group of cells that were turning into a baby, a baby that could ruin both their lives. 

 

"Absence accepted," he said hollowly. "Full marks for late work. You may go, J…John."

 

John's brow furrowed and he put both of his palms on the desk, leaning, looming over the much taller, much bigger man. He scoffed and gave a bitter smile.

 

" _I_ was supposed to get rid of it? No. No, you don't get to make that decision, do you, Professor? What say do you have? You're not its parent, you don't want it. You don't want _me_ , either, so do you know what?" John didn't notice he was beginning to raise his voice, and his face became more and more furious and disgusted. "You don't get to tell me what to do. You don't get to even make a _suggestion_ , let alone command me to _kill_ something that is just as much your mistake as it is mine. I don't give two shits about what you think I should do. I'm owning up to my mistake. I don't expect you to. I don't even _want_ you to. This baby is mine. It will _never_ be yours. Maybe your blood, but never yours. So don't even worry about that. I don't want or need your support."

 

John stood with his fists clenched, his body trembling, not even catching half of what tumbled from his lips unbidden, but hoped he made his point. "I won't tell anyone it's yours. Honestly, I don't want anyone to know. It's not yours, it's _mine_. Just mine. So you don't get a say. Are we understood… _Professor?"_

 

Sherlock pressed his palms against the desk until his knuckles went white. Without looking up, he spoke. 

 

"I said, absence accepted. You are dismissed."

 

John blinked, a little taken back by Sherlock's response. He had expected some sort of snide retort, maybe even a look of confusion, but not... whatever this was.

 

He swallowed down the lump of emotion in his throat, a headache forming from where his brow was so tightly knit. He nodded, and promptly left the classroom, only to stop right outside the door, and take several deep, calming breaths.

 

He'd just royally chewed out a teacher. A teacher, and the biological father of his child. John gave a shudder and swiped a hand through his hair, before looking up and pressing on. He could do this without help. He could do this without Sherlock.

 

Sherlock stood abruptly and threw all his papers in his case, slamming it shut with no care for the sheets that were only halfway in. He stood there for several seconds, breathing heavily, and then stalked out of the classroom. 

 

He wasn't supposed to feel. He wasn't supposed to feel a damn thing, this was just a student he'd fucked through his heat and who refused to get rid of the only evidence he'd left behind. He didn't want the baby, he…couldn't decide if he wanted John or not. The boy was unexpected. The baby even more so. 

 

He was a chemist. 

 

A seven percent solution would prove the solution, indeed. 

 

Thunder followed Sherlock home, and caressed his nerves long into the night.


	3. Chapter 3

John didn't really notice how tight his jeans were getting in the weeks that passed. Really, he didn't notice until he could barely do the button on them. He was gaining weight. The baby was finally making itself known.

 

Nearly every morning, John would go through his ritual; shower, shave, brush teeth, comb hair; until he stopped getting dressed right away. He would stand in front of his mirror, turn to the side, a hand resting on his barely-there belly, and would push it out, trying to picture what it may look like next month. No one else noticed his little belly beneath his baggy t-shirts and hoodies, but John could never unsee the little life expanding in his abdomen.

 

Many times, John would stop, sigh, and ask himself what he was doing. All of this, all of this business with having a baby was crazy. What would he even do once it was here? He contemplated the possibility of looking for couples who would be willing to adopt, but... he honestly didn't think he'd be able to live knowing his son or daughter was out there, somewhere, not knowing who he was. John was going to keep the baby, he knew.

 

He began looking into the possibility of purchasing a small flat in London.

 

John's belly grew, and bouts of rather awful morning sickness became ritual, but the world was still turning, and there was work to do. His academics didn't suffer. If anything, he was working twice as hard to prove himself, to society, the world, himself. He studied every evening, realising his classes were getting more and more difficult as winter approached, and made sure to double check his homework, practically doing it all twice to be sure he understood it. He received excellent marks on all of his analyses, theses, and lab work.

 

It wasn't as if he was out partying and getting drunk, not that he did that before.

 

He earned an A- on his first big chemistry test (only because he'd forgotten a few atomic numbers or negative signs in equations), and John was perfectly satisfied with that.

 

In the first week of November, he could no longer squeeze into his trousers, and was forced into cheap track suit bottoms. People were beginning to notice the protuberance forming beneath John's baggy shirts. He wasn't shameful, and he didn't hide it. If someone asked him if he'd gotten himself up the duff, he didn't lie. He was having a baby, and he was due in mid-May. John occasionally got strange looks in the hallway, some of them a downright sneer, but that didn't bother him any. He was perfectly content with his state, and it was no one else's business. Besides, he had a life to get on with.

 

Chemistry labs were becoming difficult to sit through. The chemical fumes irritated his nose, and made his sensitive stomach churn, but John seemed to push through it until class was dismissed.

 

Today was different. He hadn't vomited that morning, so he figured he was due to spew any moment. When Mike opened a container of a particularly strong sulphur thiol, John retched, and before his lab partner could even say anything, the boy was up and running to the sink toward the front of the lab, emptying his stomach's contents into the basin.

 

Sherlock winced and his stomach twisted in sympathy when John gagged and dashed to vomit in the basin towards the forefront of the room. The sulphur even made Sherlock nauseous, and with the morning sickness its effects were no doubt tenfold. 

 

When John's retching subsided and he stood at the sink, taking deep breaths, Sherlock walked forward and placed a tentative hand on the boy's back. "John, you may be excused from lab today. Email me and I will send you the lab conclusions so you can draw your own reports." 

 

 _I'm sorry,_ he wanted to add. _Sorry for leaving you like this, with a baby and all the work that came with it._ Sherlock bit his lip and tried to discern where the sudden feeling of discontent and regret and some warm bud deep in the pit of his belly had come from. 

 

Realising his hand was still on John's back, Sherlock removed it, and wet a paper towel to hand to John. He left the faucet run, washing John's stomach contents down the drain. "Clean yourself up. You can pack your things and return to the dorms."

 

John wasn't going to make a scene (any more than he already had) in front of his peers. If some of them didn't know he was pregnant already, they certainly knew now. That wasn't a big deal. But he wasn't going to snap at his teacher like he knew him intimately and had the right to do so.

 

Not looking Sherlock in the eye, John took the paper towel with a nod of gratitude and wiped his mouth, before binning it.

 

He wove off the fretting professor, half tempted to shove him for even touching him. God, he... he missed that touch.

 

"I'm fine," John said, "I've got it out of my system now, it won't make me any more nauseous than it is anyone else now. Really. I'm fine to continue. Please, sir, I won't leave." He finally glanced up, his heart tightening at the sheer _distress_ in Sherlock's eyes.

 

"Are you certain, John." It was a statement, not a question. Sherlock was well aware that all eyes in the classroom were on them, so he kept it to that. "If you're certain, you may stay."

 

John swallowed down the remaining gross taste in his mouth and nodded. "Yes, I'm sure. Thank you," he said calmly, before padding back over to sit down beside Mike.

 

"You all right?" the larger Beta boy asked, looking John up and down.

 

John blinked, finding that his gaze had been on Professor Holmes for longer than intended, then nodded, putting his goggles back on. "Yeah. Fine. Little bugger isn't fond of potentially lethal chemicals," he joked lightly, and found himself glancing up on occasion. Sherlock... no, he couldn't be worried for him. He wanted nothing to do with him. That was a silly notion.

 

"I'd say they've got at least a little common sense then," Mike retorted with a gentle nudge, before putting all of the unused chemicals beneath a fume hood for John's benefit.

 

John licked his lips, a hand finding the curve of his belly, as he wrote down the lab results in a rather distracted state of mind.

 

Before he knew it, the lab was being dismissed, and he found himself continuing to sit at his stool as everyone got up, staring at his completed lab paper. John felt like he needed to talk to Sherlock. He wasn't sure why; he didn't owe him a damn thing. Perhaps he just _wanted_ to.

 

Sherlock was immensely relieved that John had stayed behind. He wasn't sure what he wanted to say, but he wanted to say something, and he now had a chance. 

 

Walking up to the lab table, Sherlock could see John's hand resting on what was presumably his 'baby bump'. Some part of Sherlock's heart throbbed at the sight, and he swallowed before speaking. 

 

"John, I-" he swallowed again. "I am…regretful of how I…handled…" 

 

Try again, Sherlock. 

 

"I had no right to…make decisions and…expect…" 

 

Third time's the charm. 

 

"How are you? Aside from the glaringly obvious morning sickness…" Sherlock waved a hand lamely and decided that was probably the most eloquent he was going to get. He leaned quasi-casually against the countertop, trying to appear calm.

 

John stared, taken back by Sherlock's lack of finesse and superior air. "Um," he began, shifting in his seat, turning to face the man better, "I'm... I'm doing well, I think. Classes are going great, need to buckle down and study for midterm exams before Christmas. Not very chuffed I missed out on football this year, but--" John smoothed out his shirt to accentuate his rounding bump just a bit more, "--not exactly in what they call the ideal condition to be running across a field." He then shrugged and sighed, giving the best faux smile he could conjure. "What about you? How have... you been?"

 

"I'm fine. No need to worry about me." Sherlock straightened up and ran a hand through his hair. "And, erm. The. Baby. How is…it?"

 

John sighed and licked his lips, looking down at the lab table. "You don't... Professor, you don't have to ask that. I told you, it's not any of your business." The words were harsh, but he made sure his tone was soft and reassuring. "You don't have to feel obligated to be worried about the baby. I can handle myself. I can handle the baby." He met the teacher's eyes again. "But it's fine, if you really must know. I should be finding out what it is next month. But..." John looked down to his abdomen and stroked a thumb over it. "Other than that, it's growing, and practicing breathing with amniotic fluid, and it can move all of its joints, and is about the size of an apple." John's cheeks reddened when he realised how sentimental he sounded, and... that Sherlock probably didn't want to hear all the facts that didn't matter; it was just the same thing every other 15 week foetus did, right? "At least that's what the Internet says."

 

"I won't ask you to cite your sources," Sherlock replied quietly, a smile playing across his lips. It was more than cells, now. An ultrasound could more than likely discern body parts now, could see systems beginning to form. Nervous, digestive, reproductive. Fascinating. 

 

Entirely too fascinating not to be a part of. 

 

"John, I…I'm aware that…you've made it clear that you expect nothing from me but. I don't. Know. How I feel about that. I-" Sherlock cut himself off with a harsh sigh. "Apologies. I am conflicted."

 

John exhaled through his nose, staring off at a wall and drumming his fingers on his small mound. "I know. I know how you feel, but..." He sighed again and closed his eyes. "Profess-- _Sherlock_ , you don't _want_ a baby, you made that evident. You wanted it aborted five minutes after it was created, just--" John stopped himself before he got too worked up. "Look. Don't feel obligated. I can handle myself. You don't have to know a thing about my baby if you don't want to. Really. You don't have to be involved. It's all fine."

 

It was as though Sherlock's brain was pounding its neurological fists against his skull, telling him he was ballsing it all up and ruining something. Something, he just didn't know what. "I…don't feel obligated, I feel a…desire. To be involved. If you don't, er. Want me involved, I won't be. But I believe…that is, I have deduced, I have concurred, I have realised that I would like to be a part." 

 

Sherlock wrung his hands together. He did want to be a part of John's pregnancy, but to what extent he was not yet certain. He couldn't discern, yet again, what his Alpha self demanded and what his rational self whispered in his ear. But this time, they both seemed to coincide.

 

John didn't take very long to think on it, though he felt he probably should have. "All right," he said quietly. "Okay." He thought for a few moments and licked his lips. He gestured to the stool beside himself where Mike once sat, and waited for his professor to sit, before facing him. "Let's discuss it, then."

 

Sherlock hastened to sit across from John. Casting a perfunctory glance at John's small belly, he readjusted on his stool and looked at John's face. Open but cautious, determined. 

 

"It is half of my doing that you are pregnant, and though rationally I believe I feel obligated to help, biologically I am being told to assist you in any possible way. And to further complicate…" Sherlock cleared his throat, "I do truly desire to be involved. Er, in this, that is. With you. And the baby." 

 

He'd done so well at the start, and of course it all went downhill from there. But at least it was honest, he thought, looking at John and wanting oh so badly to reach out and take the boy's hand.

 

"To what extent?" John immediately asked, a look of judgement on his face that clearly indicated he was going to take no nonsense. "To what extent do you want to be involved with me and my child? What does that even mean? Do you just want to be sure my gestation is successful and the baby is functional, then part ways?" He didn't mean to sound so harsh, he really didn't. 

 

"Do you want to give me some sort of financial assistance? If that's the case, I don't need your money. I'm thinking about taking up a part time job, and renting out a flat in London. Obviously I can't raise a baby in a dorm room. And home, well. That's not an option." John then shook his head. "Anyway, I don't need money. What I want to know is what you want to see from me, from the baby."

 

"You can share my flat," Sherlock immediately interjected, the words spilling from his mouth before he even processed that they were vocalised. He shook his head and ploughed on. 

 

"And you're misinterpreting me. I want to be a part of your gestation, obviously, and see to it that you and the baby are cared for. I was attempting to convey…" _Relationship possibilities,_ Sherlock's brain tried, but thankfully his mouth stopped the words. "I do not want to simply leave you with a baby at the conclusion. I would prefer to…" Oh, fuck it. "Perhaps not leave at all. Serve in some capacity, whether that be…" _Boyfriend,_ Sherlock's brain called, but the mouth shushed it once more. "Serve in some capacity," he amended. 

 

John stared him down for a few seconds, and his damned brain betrayed him again and he began babbling anew. "I want to see you through the pregnancy, and…after. And the baby, as well. Be... _there_ for you and it in whatever ways you desi- er, want. In whatever ways you want. That we can agree to. Mutually."

 

John stared a while longer and didn't look very impressed. Suddenly, after hardly speaking for months, Sherlock was asking for him to move in with him, and was clearly trying to hint at entering a steady relationship.

 

John had half a mind to scoff at the man, but decided not to be rude. "That all sounds... _completely mad._ D'you even know what could happen if people find out I'm living with you? I think people will put two and two together and figure out that baby that was conceived as 'a last minute good bye before leaving for college' was actually 'going into heat with my bloody chemistry professor'. It's mad, Sherlock, completely insane."

 

John licked his lips and looked away a moment. Though he wanted to admit living with such an interesting man would be exciting, having this baby was enough of a risk as it was. "I'm going to have to think about it. Give me some time, yeah?"

 

John stood, slinging his bag over his shoulder and collecting his books, before looking to Sherlock again. "I do want to say something. When I handed you that doctor's note, essentially a big 'fuck you, I'm pregnant anyway' - sorry about that, by the way, that was an awful way to go about it - why... you looked so... I don't know. I... Whatever that was." John wasn't quite sure what he was getting at. "Why now? Why three months ago were you hoping I'd went and gotten an abortion, now you're... anxious about my being pregnant? It doesn't make sense."

 

"No, it doesn't," Sherlock agreed, tracing circles in the worn black tabletop. "Take as much time as you need. I'll see you in lecture, John."

 

John licked his lips, and nodded, glancing sideways at the professor for a while. After a moment, his feet not moving, he opened up his back pack again, digging through until he found a manila sleeve, and opened it. He pulled out a card of photo paper and gave a brief smile, before handing it out to him. "This is from last week, and its still not very big, but... from what I can tell, I think they've got your nose."

 

"Oh." Sherlock's fingers brushed John's as the sonogram photo was handed to him. He immediately pulled it close, looking at the small, grainy image, and found his hypothetical witty rejoinder was stuck somewhere in his throat behind an alarmingly large ball of emotions. "Oh, thank you." 

 

He was still staring at the photo when the door clicked shut behind John.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Short one today, folks, and a bit late - sorry! Still got 23 minutes, by my clock, until it's no longer Thursday.

From: watsonjh@hotmail.co.uk

Subject: Meeting Request

Cc:

 

Professor Holmes

 

I'd like to request a meeting time during your office hours at your convenience. I'm sure you've many students who require your help in urgent matters concerning their schoolwork, so if you could find the time sometime today or in the next few days to see me, that would be appreciated.

 

Thanks

John Watson

 

 

From: holmes.1@oxbridge.co.uk

Subject: RE: Meeting Request

Cc:

 

John,

 

I am free between 10 a.m. and 11:45 a.m., as well as 1 p.m. to 3 p.m. tomorrow, Wednesday, and Friday. 

 

S. Holmes

Professor, Advanced Chemistry and Forensic Science

 

It was 10:30 on Monday when he tapped on the door of Sherlock's office and waited for the go ahead to come in. He had just seen the professor in lecture half an hour before, but he spent a few minutes back at his dorm grabbing a granola bar to eat for his breakfast, after the morning sickness queasiness had passed.

 

John closed the door behind him and sat down in the chair across from Professor Holmes' desk, adjusting himself a little to get comfortable. This weight would take some getting used to.

 

"Uh, hi," John began sheepishly. "I, um. How are you?"

 

"I'm fine, John. And yourself?" Sherlock inquired, shuffling papers and setting them aside in a neat stack. "The baby, as well, if there are any updates on that front."

 

"Fine and fine," John sighed, stroking a hand over his abdomen. "Think the morning sickness is starting to let up. Don't want to jinx it, though, so let's just say I'm going through a good patch. No updates as far as the baby goes, not in the matter of a week."

 

He licked his lips and then laced his hands together, resting them in his lap. "I wanted to talk to you about something. About. You know. Your proposition. But first off..." John slid a hand into his coat pocket before pulling out his phone. "I want your mobile number, if that's all right. And I'll give you mine." The boy held out his mobile, and looked to Sherlock expectantly, holding out his empty hand.

 

"Oh, erm. Of course, just…" Sherlock was about to say something inane about not spreading the number around, but John was intelligent. He read off his number to John, and punched in the digits for John's as the student read them out. 

 

"Now, ah. Which proposition are we discussing?" Sherlock folded his hands on the desk and looked intently at John.

 

John shifted again, a little irritated he couldn't find a comfortable way to sit. "Well, the proposition about us living together, and you wanting to be my boyfriend--" John lifted a finger before Sherlock could interject. "Ah-ah-ah, no, don't even start, you danced around the word 'boyfriend' like it was a bloody bonfire. Now. I thought about it for a good long while." 

 

John licked his lips and looked down to his belly. "If we're going to do this thing, _together_ ," he began softly, "I need to know who you are. I hardly know you. I like to think I do. You're my chemistry professor, you're an Alpha, you're half the DNA that's in this kid. But I don't know _you_ , Sherlock Holmes. That's a problem. I couldn't even begin to guess what your favourite colour might be. I think if I asked you'd just look at me like I sprouted another head, and ask why a particular spectrum of light mattered." John gave a soft chuckle, making his belly jump.

 

"And I know you as John Watson, hardworking Omega premed student. You're correct in saying that we need to know each other better. In fact, had you not brought it up during this meeting, I was going to propose it. Would you like to go out to dinner?" Sherlock leaned back in his chair, affecting a nonchalant position when in fact his mind and blood were both racing with excitement. He tried to tamp it down, but it didn't work. For the first time in actual years, Sherlock was looking forward to getting to know someone. Fascinating.

 

John tilted his head a little, intrigued by Sherlock's suggestion. Dinner? Like a date? No, no, not like a date. Just. Getting to know each other.

 

The boy licked his lips and gave a hesitant nod. "Okay. Yeah, that sounds..." Too good to be true. "Manageable. Yeah. Dinner. Sounds good." John cleared his throat and met Sherlock's eyes. "Have any suggestions? Preferably not suit and tie, afraid I don't have any of my paternity tuxes with me."

 

Was he... really going to flirt with Sherlock like this? He couldn't really stop himself. The charm just seemed to be on. Or at least what he hoped was charm.

 

Sherlock cracked a grin and chuckled. "I suppose I can forgive you your lack of paternity suits. Casual is fine. I hardly have a preference. If you have a favourite restaurant, we can go there. I'll pick up the bill, obviously." 

 

Humour. He was using humour almost fluently with John. Christ, who was this boy, to bring out a side of Sherlock that hadn't been seen in years?

 

John huffed and waved off Sherlock. "You don't have to do that. We can split the bill." He sighed and slid a hand around to his back, rubbing it gently. "I haven't got a preference either. Except that we go a bit away from campus. Just in case. Don't want to run into anyone from here, that's how rumours start."

 

He winced a bit, realising he must have slept in an odd position last night to make his back so sore and tight.

 

"Um. I know a few good pubs. Obviously I can't drink _now_ , and pub food is still pretty good, but I can't see your posh arse in with the ordinary people," John teased. "D'you know any Italian places?"

 

"Kindly keep your remarks about my 'posh arse' to yourself until we get to know each other better," Sherlock returned, stifling a grin. "I do know one, not too terribly far off campus but not within walking distance, which manages to dissuade most students from frequenting it." Sherlock frowned as John winced. "Certainly your…I mean, the baby's size…your stomach, either way - isn't large enough to be causing you pain already? You're only at sixteen weeks."

 

John paused in his rubbing and stared at Sherlock for a beat. "I just slept funny. Jesus, I'm not fat yet, no." John huffed and sat back, cupping what was starting to form the underside of his belly. "Okay, so, this restaurant I'm assuming is in London, and we can travel by cab. I suppose I'll have to meet you there, we can't go together. Too obvious."

 

"Cab, yes, I suppose," Sherlock conceded. "I'll have to email you the address, I don't have it on hand." 

 

He allowed himself a few moments looking at John's belly as the boy rubbed it. It was starting to become more noticeable, protruding further than he would have expected at only sixteen weeks gestation. 

 

Shaking himself inwardly, Sherlock looked back up. "Would Friday evening work for you?"

 

"Friday sounds good, yeah," John said with a smile. "I, uh. I look forward to it. It'll be... nice."

 

He noticed Sherlock looking at his belly, and gave it another tender rub. "I'd offer to let you feel, but. There's nothing _to_ feel. No kicks yet. Not even the little flutters. Not just yet. Soon, I think." John looked down to his stomach and lifted his jumper just enough to show his slight protuberance. "They're a good grower though, if you can't tell."

 

"Approximately one eighth of your current 'belly' is baby, the rest are your internal organs compensating for growth. All the same, I find myself wanting to touch it very, very badly." Sherlock stared at the small sliver of skin John had revealed.

 

John rolled his eyes and pulled his jumper back down. "Yeah, thanks, Sherlock," he said with a slight annoyance, before grinning again. He shrugged. "It's instinct. You want to scent the baby. And you want to be near it, be able to protect it. It's natural."

 

Not today. Today would not be the day Sherlock touched John's belly.

 

John was full of surprises. Sherlock liked it. 

 

"Our relationship is off to a good start, then. Plenty of compromise already," he said, mock-snidely. "Is there anything else you wanted to discuss? I seem to recall something about a housing situation."

 

"That's what all this is about," John said. "I want to get to know you better before I make any brash decisions. I'm not moving in with some bloke who has... chopped up body parts in his fridge, even if he _is_ the father of my kid."

 

Sherlock blanched, but recovered quickly. "I haven't had body parts in the refrigerator for a week. My landlady cleared them out. Interrupted several experiments I had going at the time. Quite rude."

 

John stared at Sherlock a moment, and then giggled, a bright smile on his face. "You can be funny sometimes," he said, clearly not taking Sherlock's confession seriously. "That's good. I think we could get on fine, Professor Holmes."

 

Sherlock opened and closed his mouth a few times and then decided against giving John a reason to think he was any stranger than he already did. "I think we could get on fine as well, John Watson."


	5. Chapter 5

John had to walk a bit away from campus to catch a cab, which wasn't a big deal, aside from the chilly winter weather. He relieved some friendly waves, and hellos, a few of his peers even asking how the baby was doing, to which he responded 'just fine'. He ignored the hateful looks. Those who judged him didn't matter. His friends and colleagues supported him and his decision, which was what meant something to him.

 

John sat in the back of the cab thoughtfully, glancing out the window with his cheek in his palm. He hoped he looked okay. He fixed his fringe for the eighth time in the sheer reflection of the window glass, and sighed, looking down and opening his coat. One of his friends allowed him to borrow a bigger, eggshell blue dress shirt, but it still squeezed his belly just a little. Should he tuck it in? No, that'd look stupid. Untucked was fine. And maybe he'd have to roll the cuffs up a little. He had a few pairs of paternity jeans by now, and had on a darker, firmly ironed pair to make them crisp and neat, and finished off with his nicer, flat-bottomed brown trainers. They almost looked like dress shoes.

 

Sherlock had said casual, but he knew the professor would show up in the full suit he always wore, maybe without the jacket. Dressing up a little wouldn't be a bad thing.

 

John passed a few notes up to the cabbie and slipped out of the taxi, standing on the sidewalk, and looking at the restaurant a moment. Seemed well-lit and decorated inside. No doubt it was good food, if Sherlock suggested it. John licked his lips and finally pressed into the door.

 

Looking to the hostess anxiously he first looked around the restaurant, not seeing who he was meeting, before giving a weak, "Uh... Holmes?" to the waitress. The girl gestured behind him. God, how had he missed that mile long bloke in the window seat? 

 

He smiled and slid out of his coat, putting it in the seat beside him, before slipping into the booth and locking eyes with the professor. "Hi," John said folding his hands on the table, not exactly sure what to say next. "Uh, this is a nice place."

 

John looked…nice, actually. Very well-dressed for the restaurant, and he appeared to be doing that 'glowing' thing that so many people said pregnant individuals did. 

 

Sherlock smiled and nodded. "It is a very nice place. I'm well-acquainted with the owner, he'll take good care of us." He adjusted in his seat, trying to look casual. "So, erm. Small talk. Tell me about yourself."

 

John looked thoughtful as he rolled his sleeves up just a bit, enough to show off his strong forearms. "Right, jump right into it, then." John licked his lips and cleared his throat. "Well. I was born in Saint Albans, that's not too far from here. Still live there, technically. At least my dad and younger sister do." He looked down at the table and lowered his voice a notch. "Most people already know this, but my mum died when I was ten. I mean, it's nothing to apologise over, it happened, and I accept it happened. It's... fine. Tore Dad up though, he doesn't like to talk about it. Harry was too young to really understand. She is... definitely her father's daughter." He raised his eyebrows, an unamused expression. "Dad, well. Not the best man. Hardly even think he's human most of the time. He wasn't always like this, though. He lost Mum, and moved on to the bottle, so." The boy shrugged, surprised that he was giving away so much, not that it was really a secret that he didn't have a fantastic home environment.

 

It was no wonder John was looking for alternate housing. It wasn't a safe environment for a student to begin with, and especially not with a baby on the way. "I'm sorry to hear about your situation, John. Truly." 

 

John gave a small smile and shifted a little to face Sherlock. "What about you, where are you from? What's your family like?"

 

Sherlock's situation was different but perhaps equally as bad. He cleared his throat, suddenly feeling awkward and reluctant to speak. "Erm. My parents, my…mummy and father…were married for fifteen years before they had children. Their marriage was arranged, and I have no doubt that they waited those fifteen years to even engage in sexual intercourse. Er. Apologies, that was. Inappropriate." He flushed and shifted in his chair. 

 

"My brother Mycroft is involved in government. None of us talk very much. None of them are pleased with my career of choice. Father sent me to school to be a lawyer, like himself. I chose to major in chemistry instead, and when he found out he withdrew his funds. I had to resort to…other means of procuring funds. 

 

I always had a…proclivity for noticing things that others didn't. For example, my father's embezzlement and my mother's mistress on the side. I was not well-liked at home for my abilities. However, the local police station was more than happy to engage my assistance, for a small fee. I managed to make enough that I could pay for my education paycheck-to-paycheck. I put myself through university, and then achieved my master's and then my doctorate. Thus, university professor. A boring story, at best." 

 

Sherlock leaned back in his chair. "I apologise. That was irritatingly long and drawn-out. Not as interesting as your situation. Not that…an alcoholic father and dead mother are interesting, but." Sherlock sighed and put on a wan smile. "I don't know why, John, but you frazzle me at the most inappropriate of times."

 

John grinned a little at Sherlock's being abashed and chuckled. "Are you sure you're not just not used to socialising? I never see you speaking with other professors, or engaging in conversation with anyone unless it's completely necessary." He smiled and tugged at the hem of his shirt when he felt like it was riding up. "It was an interesting story, really. A tad different from mine, yeah, but definitely interesting. I guess we're both the same in the sense that we had to become self-sufficient, self-relying." John paused a moment, his face reddening. "And police work? That's amazing. I always wondered how you were able to see that Olivia was up all night smoking pot, or that Trevor had just broke up with his boyfriends. Both of them."

 

John looked up when a waitor approached and asked for their drink orders, and embarrassingly realised he hadn't even looked at the menu yet. "Just water for me, thanks."

 

"Water is fine for me as well, thank you." As the waiter retreated to bring their drinks, Sherlock smiled. A genuine smile, this time. "It's an interesting talent, though not one that is terrifically useful in my current field." 

 

They sat in silence for a few moments until Sherlock cleared his throat again. "I would appreciate it if you would lead the conversation. As you so astutely pointed out, I am not the most polished at socialisation." 

 

He wanted very, very badly to hear John speak. The boy was engaging, amusing, and honest. Captivating. Some part of Sherlock's brain told him that he would never tire of listening, and for once, he listened to that instinct. "Actually, I do have one question. What prompted you to go into the field of medicine? Not the most predictable move."

 

John looked down to his hands and thought before speaking. "You know, it just sort of feels right to me. I always knew I wanted to join a career where I could help people. That's... I dunno, I don't want to brag and say that I'm a saint, or 'Oh, all I do is give', but I do like to think I'm pretty selfless. It's in my nature to _care_ , sometimes a little too much.

 

"I also wanted to be in a career where I could be really useful. Well, I have steady hands. I could be a surgeon if I wanted. Not sure I do, but," he shrugged, "I just want to be a part of making someone's life a little better, and doing something that means something to someone."

 

John gave a sigh and began fiddling with his thumbs. "Actually... I'd thought about joining the military after I got out of college. Maybe be a medic in the army, I don't know. Can't do that now, obviously, but it was a good thought." He slipped a hand down to rest on his belly, looking remorseful for a moment before returning to a more cheerful state.

 

"Cardio might be a good place for me. Maybe cardiovascular surgery. That'd be fun. Or pedes." He flushed when that last bit escaped his mouth, and he remained silent for a long while. "I... like kids. If that isn't evident enough. I like being around them. Funny little things. Not a care in the world, except what colour plaster they get." John chuckled fondly.

 

A smile spread across Sherlock's face. "Very true. I think you'll be a good parent." 

 

The waiter returned then with their waters, and asked to take their orders. "One bill," Sherlock clarified, and then ordered a small plate of pasta carbonara. "Order whatever you'd like, John."

 

"Oh, God," John grumbled, realising he'd once again forgotten they were there to eat. "Uh. Bugger... I'll just have the same, thanks. Actually, I'll have the larger portion of that." He gave a small smile to the waiter and handed him his menu, before returning his attention to Sherlock.

 

Taking a deep breath, he responded to Sherlock's statement. "I don't know that I agree, at least not yet. I don't know. I feel like I'm in over my head with this. It... It does help, to know I can at least go to someone if I need something. I appreciate it, I really do." He gave a small crooked grin, nonchalantly rubbing his stomach as he continued speaking about the baby. "My next appointment is a few days after Christmas, the 28th. I should hopefully be finding out whether its a boy or a girl then, and... You can come if you'd like, Sherlock. If you have the time. If not, I understand, I can just relay the information."

 

"I'd like to come," Sherlock said instantly. God, there was a little boy or girl growing in John's stomach, and it was half his. "Let me know what time, and I'll be there. And, John. If you ever need anything. Help paying for bills, or food, or…supplies. I would like to help."

 

John thought about protesting Sherlock's insistence, but stopped. It was... nice to be cared about, for a change. But did Sherlock really care about _him_?

 

"Look, I need to ask you something, and it's really important that you give me an honest answer, all right?" John exhaled through his nose, turning toward Sherlock even more and gazing into his eyes hopefully. "Do you want to help me because you care for me, or just because I'm carrying your child, and I could get your arse fired if anyone found out? Do you... Do you feel something for me, or are you just trying to shut me up?"

 

"The question I've been asking myself for days," Sherlock replied quietly, and went silent for a few moments. "I believe, John, that I do care for you. I do not know, yet, whether romantically or out of duty, but I am beginning to think the former. I want to be sure that you are healthy and cared for, and I want to be the one performing those duties." 

 

"Well, at least you were honest," John remarked.

 

Sherlock folded his hands and stared at his glass of water. "I'll ask the same of you, John. Do you have... _feelings_ for me, or do you more wish that I provide you assistance?"

 

He turned to look out the window, collecting his thoughts. "I think... I think it's hard not to care for someone who gave you the best bloody sex in your life, and not only that, but put a baby in your womb." He looked back to Sherlock with an intense gaze. "I also think it's difficult not to care for someone who's doing their best to care for _you_ when everything they've worked for can be taken ripped away because of it. Doing the right thing." 

 

John blinked and ran his tongue over his bottom lip in thought. "I won't lie. I think you're a spectacular human being. You're amazing. Absolutely captivating and interesting. You have your faults, yes, and I can deal with those. But I'm... I'm afraid that if I have feelings too strong for you, you'll... you'll leave again. And I can't deal with that. I don't want to worry about a relationship that was a mad notion to begin with when I should be worrying about my child." They locked eyes. "If you can find some way to assure me that you're in this for good, I'll contemplate where our relationship could go."

 

For a few moments, all Sherlock could feel was his heart beating, pounding in his throat. This boy admired him, was interested in being with him romantically, perhaps wanted to raise their child together. 

 

After a few moments, Sherlock looked up and locked eyes with John. "I've made two mistakes already. One I regret, and one I'm beginning to thank myself for. I'm not keen on making a third. John, I…" 

 

He swallowed and reached across the table, holding his hand out in shy invitation. "I want to be there for you, during the pregnancy and…after. In whatever capacity you'll have me." Hope, tentative, weak hope, lit up his nerves and he waited for John's response.

 

John watched this man's eyes, his face very carefully. He was no detective, but he could tell when a person was being genuine. Part of him wondered how good of an actor Sherlock was, if he could fake this sort of emotion.

 

Slowly, John lifted a hand and slipped it into Sherlock's, grasping it gingerly, his fingers mingling with the much longer digits. "I... I'll have to think about it some more. About what I want from... this. How much I want you to be involved with the child once its born. But until then. I suppose a trial run is in order."

 

"Thank you," Sherlock gasped, breathing freely for what seemed the first time in weeks. "Thank you, John." _I won't let you down. I won't, I promise._

 

John's lips curled into a tentative smile and he looked up when the waiter brought them their meals. He thanked him and waisted no time putting his napkin in his lap and digging in. He made a hum of satisfaction as he took a mouthful of pasta, and nodded. "'S good," he mumbled, then rolled his eyes at himself. God, he was being a complete oaf.

 

John set down his fork and pressed a hand to his belly, looking down at it curiously, before swallowing his food. "Hm."

 

"'Hm'? What does 'hm' mean?" Sherlock asked, pausing and leaving his hand poised in midair. A slippery noodle slid off the implement, but Sherlock made no move to pick it up.

 

John looked up and blinked. "Ah, nothing. Sorry, nothing's... wrong, I'm fine." He glanced back down to his belly and moved his hand around. "I can't tell... I can't tell if I'm digesting or I'm hungry or... Something weird." He licked his lips and returned to his meal, taking a sip of water to hydrate his dry lips. "Little flutters. Don't know if it's my imagination or..."

 

"None of the above," Sherlock said quietly. "You've not eaten recently enough to still be digesting, and you've already had water and a bit of pasta. It's not your stomach. Think lower."

 

John's lips formed a small 'o' and he looked to Sherlock, then back down. He broke out into a warm grin and drummed his fingers on the small mound before stroking it. "Well, hey there. I think I might have been feeling you all week, and mistook you for being hungry. Sorry about that, love."

 

He then glanced up to Sherlock, practically beaming, and he chuckled. "Only going to get worse, isn't it? Right now it's just a little tickle, just there," he pointed to a spot right beneath his navel. "Huh. That's... that's brilliant."

 

The smile spread across Sherlock's face completely unbidden. John had just comprehended that the small flutters of movement were his baby, and he'd been there to watch it happen. "Brilliant indeed," he replied. 

 

Something inside his chest had blossomed just then, when John spoke to his belly with that radiant smile on his face. Blossomed with warmth, and happiness, and need. "John, I." He stopped, swallowed, tried again. "If you don't mind, I would very much like to…put my hands on your stomach. I know I can't feel anything yet, but I…need to."

 

John seemed surprised by the request, but he knew he probably shouldn't be. It was instinct, and he nearly always caught the glances Sherlock cast at his belly in class. "Um. Yeah. Yes. Go ahead. Please."

 

Nearly shaking with nervousness, Sherlock slid out of the booth and took the few steps needed to be in front of John. The boy's belly was rounded and the shirt stretched tight over the bulge, highlighting his condition. Casting a glance up at John's face, Sherlock crouched down and ever so gently placed his hands over top of the blue fabric. John's stomach was warm and firm beneath his palms, and Sherlock's left thumb stroked slowly back and forth. "Hello, little one," he breathed, the warmth in his chest increasing tenfold and spreading out all over his body. "Thank you," he said after a few moments, withdrawing and sliding back into his seat.

 

"Ooh," John said suddenly, then gave a laugh. He pressed a hand to his belly once Sherlock pulled away and looked down to it in awe, where he felt a rapid flutter just a moment ago. "I think they like your voice as much as I do, Sherlock. That _really_ got them going." He smiled so hard his cheeks began to hurt, and he locked eyes with the older man again. "No. No, don't do that. Thank _you_."

 

"Eat, John. The baby needs to grow big and strong, and you need to keep your energy up." Sherlock grimaced at the absolutely terrible phrases that had just slipped so effortlessly from his mouth. He lifted his fork once again, and took a few bites of his pasta. 

 

The brief five seconds his hands had been on John were not enough. Not nearly enough. His _baby_ was growing there, and John…John was beautiful. 

 

John was…beautiful? Had he…

 

Sherlock closed his eyes and shuttered his expression. 

 

It was an unfamiliar feeling, but one he recognized instantly. 

 

He was falling in love, and it was a great and terrible thing.


	6. Chapter 6

John gave a huff as he loaded a small box into the cab. He was moving out today. Luckily he'd only paid for a semester of living on campus, so leaving wouldn't be that big of a deal.

 

Mike and Bill were very adamant that John not strain himself, especially not with going down stairs. The Beta boys moved the larger boxes - not that John had a lot of things - but he was glad to see it get it done rather quickly. He turned and smiled at his friends, pulling them both into a hug.

 

Letting go, Mike gave John a pat on the shoulder and a warm smile. "See you in January, mate. Don't let the little bugger do anything interesting without Uncle Mike."

 

"Don't have much control over that." John scoffed and grinned. "And since when are you uncle, you great berk?" He gave the boy a playful punch, then looked to Bill. "Thanks for helping me, guys. I appreciate it. I just couldn't stay in that dorm anymore, it was suffocating. Can't raise a baby in a dorm room."

 

He gave a final nod and a wave before squeezing into the back of the cab, packed with boxes. He gave his coat-clad stomach a stroke when he settled, smiling wider when he felt those little flutters of the baby inside. He looked up and opened the window. "Bye, guys. See you next year."

 

And he was off.

 

What he'd failed to mention to his friends - or anyone, for that matter - that he was moving into a flat with his chemistry teacher.

 

The cab pulled up ten minutes later to Baker Street, and John's heart skipped a beat. He was actually... here. He was actually doing this. John heaved a breath and handed the cabbie the allotted notes, then pushed open the door. He had to contort a little awkwardly, his growing belly getting in the way, but he straightened up before leaning back in and grabbing a heavy box.

 

John padded up to the door reading 221B, and pressed a gloved finger to the doorbell.

 

Sherlock watched through the thin curtains, gentle strains of his violin floating softly around the flat as he waited for John's cab to pull up. When the black automobile pulled to a stop and the door opened, Sherlock set his violin back into its case and raced to the door, stepping quickly down the stairs to greet John when he knocked on the door. 

 

The doorbell sounded just as Sherlock reached the bottom step, and he opened the door, slightly breathless, to find John standing on his doorstep with a box in his arms. Sherlock reached out to take the box from John, trying not to smile too eagerly. "Hello, John. Moving out went swiftly, I presume?"

 

"Yes," John confirmed with a grin. "I've got a few more boxes. I can get them, though." He tried to look insistent, but allowed Sherlock to take the box in his arms. "Thanks."

 

He walked back and grabbed two more lighter boxes, and made his way up the high step, into the flat. "There's one more. Er... Would you mind…?" He asked sheepishly, leaning back slightly to support the weight of the boxes he held.

 

"Of course not, John, I'll get them." Sherlock took the two boxes John had in his arms, setting them down on the step and turning to go back out to the cab. "Leave those there, John, I'll take them both upstairs. This one as well. You go on into the flat, I'll carry the boxes up. No need to overexert yourself." Sherlock flushed, realising he sounded entirely too overprotective. _I'm an Alpha, that's my - I mean, John's having my baby. Of course I'm protective_. 

 

He shook his head and pulled the last heavy box from the cab, closing the door with his elbow and grunting slightly as he climbed the stairs into the flat. John was standing just inside the doorway, looking awkward. "Settle in on the sofa, John, or the cushy recliner if you want. The grey chair is mine. I'll be back in a moment." 

 

John looked around, examining all of the... decorations? He supposed he shouldn't be so surprised; the man was a bit odd, and surely a chemistry teacher would have some unorthodox belongings. The skull on the mantle would have been a bit off putting, if it had been anyone else but John.

 

Sherlock retrieved the last two boxes from the stairs, set them with the others inside the flat, and closed the door gently. "It's a large flat, as far as London housing goes. Plenty of room for two," he remarked.

 

"Room for three?" John asked playfully, lacing his hands together and resting them on his belly. "This is nice, yeah. Very nice. Could use a bit of tidying, but..." John wasn't sure if it was his orderly nature or nesting instincts starting to kick in.

 

He did, after all, accept that this would be his home, now.

 

"Room for three," Sherlock murmured, looking down slightly. He cleared his throat. "Do you think you can live comfortably here, John?" he inquired, walking over and settling into his own chair. He could see that John's stomach had grown since their dinner 'date'. He'd have to get new shirts and jumpers soon.

 

John sighed and gave a nod. "Yeah, I mean. It's definitely... lived in and homely." He grinned a little, fingers splaying over his protuberance. "It's nice. I think he or she likes it. Those are definitely happy movements." He continued looking around, taking in his new surroundings. "Uh, where will I be sleeping?"

 

"Oh, right. Apologies. Your room is upstairs. I've cleaned it out for you, and purchased a bed. I hope it is to your liking. Follow me," Sherlock said, holding out a hand for John to take. Pulling John gently to his feet, Sherlock led the way upstairs, pausing to pick up the heaviest box and take it with him. 

 

"It's not quite as large as my bedroom, but it's an improvement from your dormitory," he said, opening the door and stepping inside. "If you find that as your pregnancy progresses, the stairs become too hard, let me know. I'll move my things out and give you my room; it's on the main floor." He set the box down next to the bed and turned to look at John.

 

John gazed around the room, a grin forming on his lips. "Yeah, this is much better than the dorm." He sat down on the edge of the bed and bounced lightly. "It'll be fine, really. I'm sure I can handle stairs." He gave a lopsided grin before standing and heading toward the door. "I need to get those other boxes."

 

"No, I'll get the boxes. You start unpacking." Sherlock held his hands up, blocking John's arguments. "You've climbed too many stairs today, for certain. I'll get them." Sherlock shut the door gently behind himself, and stopped to lean back against the wall. 

 

He knew he was being too protective over John. He was only seventeen weeks pregnant, overexertion was hardly an issue. But yet he couldn't bear for John to carry the boxes. Hell, he was hardly comfortable with John bending to unpack and set up his things. 

 

Still shaking his head, Sherlock padded back down the stairs to grab two of the three remaining boxes. Setting them outside John's door, he went back to pick up the third. When all three were stacked, Sherlock knocked on the door and peered in. John was still sitting on the bed, looking contemplative. "Is everything alright?" Sherlock asked.

 

John gazed up, licking his lips. "Uh. Yeah." His cheeks tinged red and he locked his eyes on the carpet. "Everything's alright, I'm just. This is all a bit overwhelming is all. Just going to need some time to adjust. Living with someone. Living not exactly on my own, but. Not at home, not with friends. It's a bit frightening."

 

"Oh." Obviously. John was effectively moving out, though he'd left his father and sister months ago. This was…potentially permanent. Not a temporary dormitory, or an apartment, but a flat. "I'm sorry, John. I should've thought. We can leave the unpacking for later, if you'd like time to relax. I can order delivery, if you're hungry."

 

John smiled softly and gave an eager nod. "Yes. I'm hungry. Starved, actually, didn't have time for breakfast." He gave his belly a pat. "Food would be good, yes. Nothing very spicy. Thank you." He pushed himself off the bed and stood before the other, a warm grin playing on his lips. "Thank you, for everything. Really. I... It means so much to me. I don't know what I would have done without your part in this. I know I would have figured it out, but... I think this is better. For everyone."

 

"For everyone," Sherlock agreed, and reached out to take John's hand. The boy slid his palm into Sherlock's, and Sherlock smiled.


	7. Chapter 7

Sherlock had adjusted surprisingly well to domesticity. It was shocking, really, considering he'd lived alone for his entire adult life, and most of his childhood. But John was easy to live with. Sherlock stocked the cupboards with food, and John made tentative requests for more bread, or peanut butter, or milk. Every once in awhile, Sherlock would return home from an outing with takeaway, and sometimes John would, too. 

 

John spent most of his time in his room, for the first week, but then as he seemed to grow more comfortable, he would bring his laptop down to the sitting room and sit in companionable silence with Sherlock. 

 

John's belly grew, and Sherlock was positively enthralled that he was there to watch the changes. He longed to touch it, that small but swelling bump, and the desire only increased every time he caught a glimpse of John rushing from the shower to his room shirtless. 

 

Christmastime grew closer, and as Christmas Eve approached, Sherlock began making plans for dinner. When he called John down from his room, the table was nearly bowing under the weight of the ham, potatoes, and stuffing. "I hope it's all to your liking," Sherlock said with a smile, pulling John's chair out and ushering him to sit down.

 

John's eyes sparkled as he looked at the feast that waited for him on the kitchen table. "Oh sweet jesus," he muttered, then gave Sherlock a nudge. "You made all this, then? Looks fantastic." John dropped heavily into his chair, and was quick to start spooning out potatoes and drowning them in the juice from the ham, and helping himself to start slicing the hunk of pink meat.

 

"Made most of it. The recipes weren't my own, and the stuffing was a boxed mix. But." Sherlock walked around the table to sit in his own chair, waiting until John had served himself before spooning potatoes and sliding a slice of ham onto his own plate. "Happy Christmas Eve, John," Sherlock said, lifting his water-filled wine glass in mock toast.

 

John blushed when he realised he'd started stuffing his face in favour of manners. He swallowed down his mouthful of food and wiped his lips on a napkin before raising his glass as well. "Happy Christmas Eve, Sherlock." He grinned and clinked his glass with the other man's, then took a sip.

 

He went back to his food and ate more like a proper young man, but with just as much gusto. "Oh, god, this is fantastic," he groaned around his fork, almost radiating with happiness.

 

Before Sherlock was even halfway through his dinner, John was on his second plate, and scarfing away. He took another drink of water, before pulling away from the glass suddenly and looking down at his belly with wide eyes. "Oh," John gasped.

 

The jumper, the green cable knit jumper that was his favourite, had been stretched to its limit, and snapped to crumple over the top of his belly.

 

"U-uh," John stammered, surprised. "I'm... going to need some new clothes, I think."

 

Sherlock leaned up and over the table and guffawed at the sight. John's belly was exposed, his jumper rumpled up over top of his stomach. "I know, John. You've been close to growing out of your jumpers for a week and a half. In fact…" Sherlock rose, walked 'round the table (letting his hand drag over John's shoulders as he passed) and went to the small pile of wrapped gifts in the corner of the sitting room. "I was going to wait until tomorrow," he said, picking one package and handing it to John, "but it seems the need has arisen."

 

John blinked and reached up for the gift, beginning to rip off the paper, and tore open the box. He smiled and pulled out the dark blue jumper, holding it up and looking at it. It was much nicer than his other jumpers, obviously name brand, and a paternity jumper at that. "Oh, wow," he whispered. John stood up and slipped out of his now too-small jumper. "Wow. Sherlock, this is nice. Like, really nice. Thank you. You didn't have to get me a gift, God."

 

"I _wanted_ to," Sherlock said, taking the wrapping paper and wadding it up before tossing it in the bin. "I thought the colour would go well with…erm, with your eyes. I do hope you like it." He stood awkwardly next to the table, watching John as he examined his new jumper.

 

John's cheeks went pink and he smiled brightly at Sherlock. He handed him the new jumper before standing up and shifting out of the one clinging to his body for dear life, and he held it out for the man to take. Reaching for the new jumper and carefully ripping off the tag, John paused and looked up; Sherlock was staring at him. His belly, in particular. "Uh... is... Is something wrong?"

 

Sherlock shook his head and turned his gaze away from John, to the still-warm jumper in his hands. "Nothing, John. Simply a silly Alpha desire. Go on, put on the new jumper. I want to see if it fits correctly."

 

John stared at Sherlock for a few moments, finally determining what he meant. The blush on his cheeks turning more vibrant, and a smirk playing his lips, John draped the new jumper over the back of his chair, and didn't hesitate to grab Sherlock's wrists and place his cool, large hands on his bare bump. "They're not moving right now, and I doubt you could feel it anyway, but there he or she is." John watched the look on Sherlock's face turn into a mixture of uncomfortable and in a state of absolute bliss, moving his palms to rub slow circles into his swollen stomach. "How's that?"

 

"Good," Sherlock breathed, suddenly lost for words as he felt the warmth and solidity of John's belly beneath his palms. That was his baby in there, growing and making John's body change, swell. "Very, very - good. Exceptional. Thank you. I…thank you." Sherlock allowed John to move his palms across the swollen expanse, marveling at the smooth roundness of it. He felt so very content; Sherlock was loathe to let go.

 

John's beaming smile lessened, only to become a gentle one. He hadn't really touched Sherlock, not quite like this, since the heat.  He felt warm. Not warm like he was going into heat again, but warm in his heart, and radiated through his entire body. Sherlock's completely enraptured expression and mannerisms. "Sherlock..."

 

Snapping to attention, Sherlock quickly withdrew his hands and stuffed them in his trouser pockets. "I'm…sorry, John. That was inappropriate. My apologies." He took a step back, looking downwards. He'd lost himself for a moment, his body warm and satisfied and making him ignore cues even more than he usually did. He felt cold and empty now, and flustered. Embarrassed. "Sorry," he repeated, glancing up to look at John's face before focussing on the floor again.

 

John blinked, his brow furrowing in confusion. "What? No, no! You're... it was fine, just." He wasn't sure. But he knew he wanted Sherlock to continue touching him. "Sherlock," he whispered, after a moment, taking his hands again and stepping forward, his belly just an inch away from Sherlock's, and pressed the Alpha's hands to his protuberance firmly. "It's... all fine." He said with a nod, gazing up into the other's eyes. "Really."

 

"I…" Sherlock opened and closed his mouth a few times but found he wasn't particularly capable of forming a coherent thought at the moment. He let his hands rest on John's belly, that strange warmth filling him and radiating outwards. He sighed and let his eyes close, and a smile spread slowly across his face. After a few moments, Sherlock took another small step forward and slid his hands from John's belly to his lower back. His eyes opened and he looked down at the Omega for a moment before tentatively tightening his arms and ensconcing the boy in a loose hug.

 

John tensed when he was hugged. It just didn't seem like something the other would want to do willingly. John was pleasantly surprised, and his smiled, nuzzling his face into Sherlock's sternum and hugging him in return. He was completely enveloped in this man's warmth.

 

"You're very warm," Sherlock remarked, adjusting his arms so the embrace was more natural. There was a distinctive height difference, and had Sherlock wanted to he very easily could have rested his chin on John's head. The Omega seemed content, and Sherlock was too - the boy's swelling belly was pressed against his body, the solidity and heat utterly wonderful as it seeped into his clothes. "I find that I do not want to let you go."

 

John exhaled a breath, tilting his head up to look at Sherlock, and shook his head, smiling. "You don't have to." He ran his nose along his jawline, inhaling his welcoming scent. Familiar. Needed. "Don't let go," he breathed, a desperation laced with the demand.

 

"I won't," Sherlock promised, and leaned down until his forehead was touching John's. 

 

Their dinners grew cold, the gravy skinning over and beads of water on their glasses sliding down to dampen the off-white tablecloth. But Sherlock stood with John in his arms, more points of contact than he could count but lacking the one he wanted the most. But no, he wouldn't take it from John. Not without his consent. 

 

Sherlock's heart beat steadily in his chest. Was this what love felt like?

 

John's fingers curled into the back of Sherlock's shirt and his eyes dropped to the plush Cupid's bow lips on the Alpha's perfectly sculpted face.

 

They'd never kissed, he realised, not even when they fucked when the boy went into heat. He wanted to.

 

John tilted his head to one side and cautiously neared his face to Sherlock's licking his lips, to moisten them, to make them inviting. _Please_.

 

Sherlock's subconscious responded before his conscious mind interpreted the change in John's posture. He tilted his own head forward and bridged the gap between John's mouth and his own, his lips meeting John's in a soft, tentative press as his eyes closed.

 

John's entire body vibrated in excitement and gratitude as those lips met his own. He let Sherlock lead, allowing the caress of lips, but no further; there would be plenty of time for that. He knew it was nature to be submissive to the Alpha, but John would only allow him so far.

 

After a few long seconds of a tender capturing of lips, John broke away, still clinging to the other, and he smiled radiantly. "Happy Christmas, Sherlock."

 

"Happy Christmas, John," Sherlock breathed, holding John close.


	8. Chapter 8

Living with Sherlock had been an interesting experience, to say the least. John supposed he had underestimated just how strange the man could be. Mornings, John was woken up to the sound of sweet (and occasionally screechy) violin song. He then prepared tea and breakfast, the food Sherlock almost always refused. Afternoons were spent with John mindlessly watching telly, while Sherlock was either staring at cold case murder files (God only knew how he got ahold of those) or critiquing whatever programme was on. Evenings, Sherlock ate only a little dinner (which left a lot for John), and they spent the evening chatting and joking until they parted ways and went to bed.

 

Christmas morning, luckily, was a morning that John's ears were met with a perfect melody, _Have Yourself A Merry Little Christmas_ , and he grinned sleepily. God, that was a beautiful thing to wake up to, on this day - almost as beautiful as the man playing the violin. Half asleep and on cloud nine, John chuckled to himself, almost disbelieving he could ever be so happy on Christmas. His family were always hell to put up with, if they even remembered what day of the year it was, and it just wasn't the same without his mum.

 

This year would be different.

 

John didn't notice the music becoming steadily louder until he felt a dip on the edge of the bed.

 

"And have yourself a merry little christmastime," Sherlock murmur-sang softly, the strains of his violin fading out as the bow slid slowly across the strings. He lowered himself onto John's bed, watching as the boy shifted into wakefulness and turned to look at Sherlock. "Happy Christmas, John," Sherlock said with a smile.

 

John gave a groan as he stretched out his arms and legs, a smile still playing on his lips. "You too, Sherlock," he mumbled, before laying back on his pillow chuckling as he opened his eyes, meeting the other's. "You've got an incredible voice, have I ever told you that?" Of course he had. Many times. "That was beautiful. The song. Well done." 

 

John pushed himself up to a sit, rubbing his eyes and running a hand through his bed hair. "Oh, they're a bit active this morning. Excited for Christmas, too, eh? Or maybe you liked Sherlock's song?" John pulled down the sheet to expose his shirt clad bump and gave it a caress.

 

"Response to host increase in blood pressure upon awakening, more like," Sherlock murmured, but at a slight glare from John conceded that "yes, it could be that, as well." Sherlock settled the violin onto the mattress and laid a tentative hand on John's burgeoning belly. "Whenever you're ready, I have a small breakfast prepared, and then gifts afterward."

 

John gave a nod holding, Sherlock's hand on his belly for a few moments, before removing it and throwing back the sheets. He rose from the bed with a small grunt of effort and gladly followed Sherlock into the kitchen. "You know, I could have made breakfast. You don't have to do everything for me. I thought you were going to have a conniption when I did the dishes last night."

 

"It's illogical, but I can hardly stand to see you doing any manual labour that could jeopardise the health of you or the baby. Dishes, apparently, included." Sherlock pulled John's chair back, allowing the Omega to sit and then pushing the chair in slightly. He set the plates of toast and bacon down in front of John before seating himself, pouring them each a glass of orange juice and picking up a slice of toast himself.

 

"I'm still perfectly capable, Sherlock," John scolded gently, then took a sip of orange juice. "Just because you're an Alpha and you're older than me doesn't mean you have the God-given right to baby me all the time. I can do dishes, and I can get the shopping, and as long as I'm not running a marathon or using any harmful substances, I should be fine. If I'm going to be living here, I need to pull my weight, " he said firmly.

 

John spread an abundance of jam on his toast and ate it quickly and with ease. He politely denied the bacon, though, the smell making him a bit nauseous, and left for the living room as Sherlock finished up. He settled into his recliner, stroking his belly as he looked at the Christmas tree (purchased four days prior) settled behind Sherlock's leather chair. Next Christmas, if everything worked out as planned, there'd be an eight month old boy or girl to buy for, sitting in their bouncy chair and staring at the blinking lights with complete amazement, completely apathetic about the tiny socks and clothes that were just for them. Of course, John couldn't know how this was going to go - if Sherlock really wanted that.

 

As he did the washing up (pointedly not saying anything about the chore to John), he watched the boy gazing wistfully at the Christmas tree. _Probably thinking about future christmases, with a newborn running about_ , Sherlock mused, and his heart skipped a beat as he thought about the gift he'd bought for John. For their baby. 

 

"Right then, John. I have…several…for you. One at a time." Walking out to the sitting room, Sherlock handed John a mid-sized parcel to unwrap. When John pulled the digital camera out, Sherlock stopped his protests and explained. "I noticed as you were moving in that the only way you can take photos is with your mobile. I thought a camera would be a slightly higher-quality and simpler way to document the…" _pregnancy,_ he wanted to say, but cleared his throat. "To take pictures."

 

John snorted and continued examining the camera. "Is that your way of telling me you want me to take selfies as my belly grows?" He laughed fondly, teasing at Sherlock's fascination with his growing stomach. The boy turned on the camera and snapped a picture unexpectedly of Sherlock, giggling at the surprised face on the screen.

 

He pointed to a flat rectangular box and waited as Sherlock retrieved it, and opened the box to find a deep red, Dolce & Gabbana dress shirt. "Noticed you didn't have anything red, and. Well, thought it would look sexy on you." John smirked. He wouldn't dare mention the hefty price of the garment, though he was sure Sherlock already knew.

 

"That's lovely, John," Sherlock murmured, running his fingers along the cool, slithery fabric of the shirt. "Thank you. It will look nice, I'm certain, though I doubt I could pull off 'sexy'." He carefully laid the garment back in its box, closing the lid and setting it aside. Shirts like that weren't inexpensive, Sherlock knew. He hoped John hadn't paid full price for it; he was hardly worth that sort of expense. 

 

Handing John a smaller box, he watched as the boy removed the deep green wrapping paper and opened the box to find a thick silver wristwatch. He cleared his throat softly before speaking. "It's something of a family tradition on the Holmes side to gift an expecting spouse with a silver wristwatch. I know we're not bonded, but I thought I'd carry on the nonsense tradition regardless."

 

"Huh," John pondered, listening to the story while taking out the watch. "Jesus, this is... wow. This is _real_. Christ, I've never had anything that was, you know, real silver before. Thank you, just. Wow." John slid the watch on, admiring it, and grinned a little, admiring the overall look of it. It was then he processed the 'expecting spouse' comment and he blushed profusely. "Oh, uh. Right. It's... yeah, that's nice. To keep with tradition. Sort of."

 

John broke out of his slight discomfort and directed Sherlock to another parcel, smaller and quite obviously a book, but he hoped that the other man would like what the book was about: _19th Century Killers_. "I know you're into murder and crimes and all that. Saw this when I went to the book store to get a male Omega pregnancy book, and it seemed like your fancy. Has all the interesting serial killers of the 1800s."

 

"Oh, out _standing_ ," Sherlock breathed, inhaling sharply as he opened the book and heard the fresh crackle of the binding. "I'll read it straightaway. New murder methods are always so riveting." 

 

Sherlock spent a few moments leafing through the pages, looking at chapter titles and the few gory photos the book included, before closing it with a wistful sigh and setting it aside. "One last gift, John, and this…well, I'll let you interpret the meaning yourself." 

 

He picked up the large, slightly unwieldy box, and set it gently in John's lap. He sat back in the chair and waited for John's reaction. He hoped ever so desperately that it would be positive, that John would understand what the gift meant.

 

John's brow furrowed when the paper was ripped off, and the box sat in his hands. "'My First Chemistry Set'," he read aloud, slowly. He stared at it, without comprehension, reading off the listed components that were housed in the cardboard. "Four beakers, eight test tubes, one pair of tongs, two pairs of safety goggles, two pairs of fire proof gloves, one Bunsen burner... Ages 8 and up." John blinked, that last bit sparking some sort of understanding. "Sherlock... is this... for the baby...?"

 

Sherlock nodded gently, looking first at the box and then up at John. "Yes. I…couldn't think of the right way to tell you, but. I…I want to be there, to teach the baby. Not, er, just chemistry. But maths, and reading, and spelling. And to…watch you teach it, as well. I want to be there, John." _Please, let me be there._

 

John's lips parted, and his breath hitched with full apperception. He put a hand over his mouth and kept his gaze locked on the box. It was so much more than a chemistry set. It was a promise. It was Sherlock's promise to John, to their child, that he would be there. He would be there to see their child grow and learn, and eventually those small hands would be touching this very box and the contents inside. Sherlock was going to be around to teach their child, and interact with them, and _be there_ and be a parent. Sherlock _wanted_ this. John knew it now.

 

Despite himself, a dry sob fell from his lips, and his hands began shaking. Before he knew it, his sobs were no longer dry, and his vision was blurred with tears, but didn't take his eyes away from the most meaningful gift he'd ever received.

 

"John, don't cry, don't cry John, it's okay, it's okay." Sherlock rose quickly from his seat and moved over to take John's hands in his own and pull them close. "It's okay. It's okay." Sherlock leaned forward and pulled John to rest against him, the box somewhat awkwardly placed between them but Sherlock desperately needed to hold John. "It's okay. I'm here. I'll always be here."

 

John couldn't stop, and he hated that. Sherlock thought he was upset, when quite the opposite was true, and he couldn't stop crying. He shook his head into the man's chest, trying to calm himself, reducing to a few hiccoughs and sniffling. "N-no, Sherlock, that's... it's not that, it's..." He pulled back and put his hands in his face, needing a moment to collect himself, before red-rimmed but sparkling eyes looked up. "You... You _will_ be here, won't you?" John asked, looking hopeful, and then knowing. 

 

Sherlock didn't have to answer. John knew he was sincere.


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Woo, ultrasound!
> 
> To let everyone know - Mycroft never enters the storyline. We've gotten a few comments about him coming in at some point, but neither Leslie or I really enjoy writing Mycroft as the 'interfering big brother' sort of character, and to be honest he doesn't really have a place in this story. 
> 
> Thank you for all your reviews and support! The fact that we've cracked 10,000 hits is baffling and incredible to me. We're probably gonna end at about seventeen chapters, so stay tuned for...angst. Terrible angst. Like. Next chapter is the last happy chapter until chapter seventeen itself. God, I'm so sorry. But. I think y'all will like it anyhow. 
> 
> Again, thank you, and enjoy!

John was a little anxious, to say the least. And by anxious, he meant practically pushing Sherlock out the door and into a cab, down to St. Bartholomew's hospital. Half an hour early.

 

He'd had ultrasounds before. Four of them, he thought, and each of them was as amazing as the last. But this one would be more important than others. They would be able to check the baby's gender by now. And god, it was killing John to know whether it was a boy or a girl.

 

Sometimes, John was convinced it was a boy. The way his stomach churned whenever someone was wearing perfume, even lightly, made him think that the little one was all boy. Other times, it could be a girl; the movements were so light and graceful and elegant, just as he pictured a little girl should be. But he couldn't know either way.

 

John stroked his belly lovingly on the inside of his coat, his other hand gripping Sherlock's. Sherlock's presence was another exciting aspect, making this routine experience more pleasurable. The baby's father would be there for the check up, to watch the infant move, and see its development, and would be there the moment John knew whether they were having a little daughter, or a wee son.

 

Because it was, after all, _their_ baby.

 

"You ready?" John asked, positively beaming as they were steadfastly approaching the hospital.

 

"Somewhat," Sherlock replied honestly. "It's daunting, to say the least. But I daresay I'm excited." Sherlock squeezed John's hand, able to feel the Omega's heart racing by the quick pulse in his wrist. 

 

Sherlock was glad that he and John had grown more comfortable over the break. Sharing their first sweet kiss had been wonderful, fulfilling for Sherlock and John too, he believed. John allowing - and inviting - Sherlock to touch him, hold him close, was perhaps the best part of their increased comfort with each other. 

 

Sherlock released John's hand and slid his arm around John's back, curling around him and pulling the Omega to lean against him. Sherlock's hand rested on the side of John's stomach, warm and solid even through layers of jumpers and coats. "And you? Are you prepared?"

 

John sighed, placing his hand overtop Sherlock's, and gave a small smile. "I'm... nervous. Which doesn't make any sense, I don't have anything to be nervous about. I'm sure the baby's healthy, and I really don't have a preference whether it's a boy or a girl. I'm ready, though."

 

He slipped out of the halted cab, Sherlock insisting on paying the cabbie, and waited on him at the sidewalk. They entered together, side by side, and took the elevator up to the appropriate floor. 

 

John was practically bouncing with excitement as they entered the waiting room with a few other expecting Omegas and their partners. They received a few strange looks, being so obviously far apart in age; not that it was uncommon for an Omega to have an older Alpha, but perhaps not an entire generation ahead. John didn't seem to notice, still wrapped up in his own nerves and glee.

 

After 20 minutes of waiting and seeing couples leave and enter the back, John's name was called, and he took Sherlock's hand as they walked back.

 

John got settled on the examination table after taking off his coat, and answered the basic health questions the nurse asked him.

 

The young woman then looked to Sherlock. "And this is... your Alpha? It says in your files that you're unmated, Mr. Watson..."

 

"He is unmated, but I am the father of the child," Sherlock interrupted. Biting back a comment about the unnecessary nature of such questioning, Sherlock reached over and took John's hand. 

 

The nurse put her hands up in defense. "I asked only because I need to change it in the file if he were to become mated," she said calmly.

 

John laced his fingers with Sherlock's and took a long breath. "Calm down, Sherlock, it's okay." He gave his hand a reassuring squeeze. "He is the father, yes."

 

The nurse gave a nod and told them the doctor would be in shortly. John sagged against the back of the angled table and stroked his free hand over his belly. "Think it might be asleep. Not moving so much. Mind telling them to wake up?" John gave Sherlock a nudge. He was convinced the man's voice caused the baby to react, even though Sherlock thought it was completely ridiculous.

 

"I, er…certainly," Sherlock said, reaching down to slid John's shirt up over the curve of his stomach. "Erm…wake up, little one. Time to show us your genitals." He flushed as the words fell from his mouth. "I, ah, didn't mean it that way," he said to John, his face going hot as the blush spread.

 

After a moment, John broke out into a fit of giggles, his belly jumping, and he gave Sherlock a pat on the face. "You're so awkward, you know that?" He laughed again and put both hands on his stomach, trying to calm himself. "Ha…told you it works, they're going a little bit now. God, I can't wait for you to feel it, too. It's amazing."

 

"I can imagine," Sherlock said, glad the awkward moment had passed. He kept his hand on John's belly, rubbing gently. The bump was firm, but not solid, the baby's small mass simply pushing the rest of his organs out of the way as it grew. The firmest spot was just below his navel, and Sherlock put his palm there, thumb moving back and forth. "I'm nervous," he admitted quietly.

 

"Why?" John asked softly, smiling understandably. "Why are _you_ nervous? It's just an ultrasound. Given, an important one, but." He sighed through his nose and lifted a hand to rest on Sherlock's cheek. "Talk to me."

 

Sherlock sighed and nodded. "You're having a baby. My baby. And we're going to find out today whether you're carrying a boy or a girl. And then in a matter of a few months, you're going to _have_ the baby, and so much is going to change. It's…nearly overwhelming. I can't imagine how you must feel. It's different for you. You're living it, I'm watching it. I have no idea how you keep it together." Sherlock inhaled sharply. "Your academic career may come to an end. Will you be able to finish school, become a doctor? I'll continue to teach, I can provide for us, but you. Everything's changing for you. I…worry that I won't keep you happy."

 

John had considered all of this already. He had to admit, the outlook for his academic career didn't look good. He sighed through his nose and stared up at the ceiling. "I can take classes online. Finish up the next two years with online classes. Then…then I'll have to take a few years off. At least until the little one starts primary. Then begin going in for my masters and doctorate in medical school. And...if I have a late class, find a reliable daycare, until you or I can pick them up. Which I'll hate doing, leaving my kid with other people to look after them, but. I can't just give up on my dream, Sherlock. I love our baby, so much already, but... I'll find a way to make it work."

 

He then turned his head to look at the man. "I don't think keeping me happy will be a problem. You're doing a good job of that already."

 

Sherlock smiled wanly. "I don't feel like I do a good job of it. Mediocre at best. But if you say so, then I suppose I won't argue." Sherlock patted John's stomach lightly and withdrew his hand, grasping John's own palm instead. He sat in silence, contemplating. 

 

He didn't want John to have to give up his dream. He knew John was dedicated, and a hardworking student. He knew he'd take parenting the same way…but their roles would be reversed. John, acting on instinct or taught knowledge, teaching Sherlock to imitate. He hoped he'd be a good parent, but he couldn't be sure. He felt love for the child already, and love for John, though he'd never said it out loud - and neither had the Omega. 

 

Interrupting his thoughts, the door opened, and John's doctor strode in. Sherlock squeezed John's hand in anticipation.

 

John gave the doctor a friendly smile, and exchanged a hello, before the Beta doctor turned to Sherlock, extending a hand and introducing himself. "Dr Hillsborough. And you are?"

 

"Sherlock Holmes. The other father of the baby." Sherlock took Dr Hillsborough's hand and shook it firmly. "Pleased to make your acquaintance. Are you John's regular obstetrician?"

 

John nodded, but the doctor supplied the vocal answer. "Yes. John has been seeing me since he was sixteen. Very bright lad." He sent the boy a smile, before pressing his fingertips into John's belly. "Any pain?"

 

"No," John said, wiggling a bit, "but it's a little sensitive."

 

"That's normal. The skin will become more sensitive and even irritable as you get bigger and it stretches to accommodate."

 

Dr Hillsborough examined his abdomen for another minute, before pulling out his clipboard and asking him a few questions.

 

John blushed at one in particular. "My nipples, er... they're becoming more, well, sensitive..." He couldn't lock eyes with Sherlock, his face bright red.

 

Sherlock looked up to see John's blushing face. He squeezed John's hand again reassuringly, and thankfully the doctor broke the short silence. "Also normal. Your body is preparing to lactate to feed your baby, so for the next few weeks your nipples and areolae will be more sensitive. As early as six weeks before you're due, you may start to produce milk. We'll discuss it in more detail if you wish. But for now, I believe a gender scan is in order. You do want to know the sex of the baby, correct?"

 

John nodded enthusiastically and gripped Sherlock's hand. "Yes. Yes, we do want to know." He licked his lips and shifted into a comfortable position, and anxiously awaited the typically reluctant coldness of the gel applicant.

 

After it was spread about, and the sonogram machine was turned on, John looked away and met Sherlock's eyes. They were both nervous. They both wanted to know, but knowing whether inside him grew a son or a daughter would make it all the more real.

 

John exhaled deeply before turning to look at the screen, giving a gentle laugh as he could so clearly see the outline of their baby. He could feel those flickers of movement as he watched it on screen, and he smiled brightly, already becoming teary eyed. "It's grown quite a bit," he said softly.

 

"Which makes our chances of getting a look between its legs more likely," the doctor responded, moving the probe about. "Well, there it is. Ready?"

 

Hand shaking, John gripped Sherlock's and then nodded. "Yes."

 

Dr Hillsborough began typing over what was presumably the baby's genitals, and John gaped at the words. "O-oh my god..."

 

'IT'S A BOY!'

 

Sherlock's whole body erupted in goose pimples and he gripped John's hand even tighter, tears springing at the corners of his eyes and threatening to spill over. John was having a boy. They were having a son. "A boy, John. You're having a little boy. Oh my god," Sherlock breathed, leaning forward until his forehead rested on John's forearm. "A son. God, a son."

 

John put his face in his hands, as if trying to prevent the impending tears from spilling, but there was no stopping it. A _boy_. The little thing that wriggled inside of him was a little boy. It wasn't a foetus, it wasn't just a baby, it was a bouncing baby boy. His boy.

 

John laughed wetly and looked to Sherlock, still gripping his hand. "God, God, a _boy_. A son, we're... We're going to have a _son_ , Sherlock, a little boy..."

 

He just couldn't believe it. Despite the sticky gel that was still on his belly, he took his and Sherlock's hands, bringing them to press against it. "This is our son, our son is in here, God, a rambunctious little boy."

 

Sherlock nodded enthusiastically, tears finally rolling down his cheeks as John pressed his hands to his growing belly. His words were caught in his throat, but he managed to choke out a wet laugh. He was smiling so hard that his cheeks ached, but he couldn't stop, couldn't stop smiling, couldn't stop the tears of relieved nervousness and absolute joy from wetting his skin. "Our son," he said thickly.

 

"Our son," John said again, and he was sure he'd say it a million more times before the baby was even here. " _Our_ son."

 

And John beamed brighter than the Christmas tree still at home, and he doubted it was legal to feel this happy.

 

John was having a boy, they were having a son, and that son would be part of a family. An unorthodox family, but a family that John was grateful for, and wouldn't give up for anything in the world.


	10. Chapter 10

John, over the days after the rather eventful sonogram, noticed that the movements and kicks coming from what they now knew was their son were getting stronger. There were a few nights that he would be woken up to a particularly powerful one. He knew he should probably be irritated, but he would sit awake for an hour or so, cradling his belly and talking to it, scolding it gently. How could he be frustrated with this little gift in his tummy? 

 

That's what he'd decided it was, after all. A present, and not a curse. Things had started out bleak, but now, now that Sherlock was involved, things were looking up. They were going to have a son, and that was something that should be considered a blessing, despite the rather strange circumstances.

 

An afternoon cup of (decaf) tea, and another documentary about the British military on the history channel, John was caressing his belly as he felt another thump coming from inside himself. He pressed his hand to the spot, what he was assuming was a foot, and kept it there. It was hard to discern what he could feel on his palm, if anything, but he was hopeful. "Hey, Sherlock?" John called to the man sitting at his microscope in the kitchen. "Can you come here a mo?"

 

Sherlock looked up and over at John, who was cradling his stomach, and nodded. Jotting several notes down in his book as he stood, he crossed the room and stood a comfortable distance from the Omega. "Do you need something?"

 

"No, come _here_ , you git," John said, gesturing Sherlock closer. "Here, I want to test something." Once Sherlock was closer, John took his hand and practically yanked him down, pressing the man's palm to the side of his stomach where he could feel the little kicks prior. When there was nothing and Sherlock was about to ask what John was doing, he huffed. "Just give it a second, he was-- oh, there, just there, did you feel that? That was a good one."

 

"Was that." Sherlock inhaled sharply and pressed his palm harder against John's belly. He felt another soft drum against his hand, and he looked up at John in awe. "Was that the baby? Did he just…kick me?"

 

John gave a full smile, teeth and all, and nodded slowly. "Yep. He just kicked you, alright. He's getting good at that." He spoke fondly and laid his hand over top of Sherlock's, keeping it there. "Just keep feeling, he likes to wriggle around on occasion, let's see if I can't provoke him." John began gently pressing his fingers into his belly, and giggled when he felt a little squirm of legs, not sure if Sherlock could feel it too, but it was whimsical nonetheless.

 

"John," Sherlock breathed as tiny feet pattered against his hand. "John, that's our baby." His heart started to ache, a feeling of the most intense want and longing clutching the organ and squeezing tightly. For weeks and weeks he'd watched John's belly swell. He'd seen photos, seen the expression on John's face when he felt the baby move for the first time, he'd watched the sonogram when the doctor revealed the gender of their son. He'd sat and watched and held John's hand through the milestones of the pregnancy thus far, but this was the first time he'd _felt_ a part of it. "John, I'm…"

 

John grinned warmly and a hand rubbed circles into the other side of his belly, as if patting the little boy's head. "I know. I know." 

 

He lifted up his jumper so Sherlock could press his bare hands to the expanse, and feel what he could; be as close to their baby as he could be. "It's amazing. Brilliant. Fantastic. Perfect, actually. He's in there, getting bigger and stronger. Halfway done." John sighed the last words, realising the significance of them. He was 20 weeks gone, and 20 weeks until their son was born. Halfway done.

 

"Think his head's here..." He brought Sherlock's other hand to the opposite side, and a little lower. "Bit sideways at the moment. It feels a little firm there, definitely think that's his pretty little head."

 

Sherlock nodded and shook his head, sniffling and trying not to let the tears fall from his eyes. He rubbed the spot, feeling the firmness, his hand still on the other side feeling the occasional soft thump of a kick. He looked up, certain he appeared a mess - eyes certainly red, cheeks flushed. John was focussed on his belly, on the baby growing within him. Sherlock was enamoured with both of them, but it wasn't the baby he wanted to kiss at the moment. He swallowed and tore his eyes from John's elated face and returned his gaze to John's middle, feeling love bubble up from within and threaten to spill over.

 

John could see that Sherlock was starting to feel overwhelmed with emotion, and he ran a hand through the man's dark curls, before bringing his head to rest on his belly. John stroked his hair and shushed him softly. "You're allowed to cry, you know. It's not against the rules, because you're a grown man. You're allowed to feel vulnerable. You're definitely allowed to love him, unconditionally. It's not logical, I know, and I know it's not just instinct. You care about our baby, Sherlock, you're allowed to say so, and you're allowed to feel him whenever you want. Really. He's yours, too."

 

Sherlock was able to nod once before the tears did fall, dripping onto John's belly as they slid from his eyes, down his nose, off his cheekbones. His mouth opened and he breathed in erratically, pressing kisses to the dampening skin. "I love you, I love you," he exhaled, and he wasn't sure if he was saying it to John or to the baby or to both.

 

John gave a wet smile, trying not to cry himself, but managed to stay strong. He stroked Sherlock's face tenderly and pushed him back abruptly, before leaning over and wrapping his arms tightly around the man. That was all he needed to hear. All he needed to hear was that Sherlock loved the baby in his belly as much as John himself did. "Thank you," he breathed, barely audible, and gave a tremble before tightening his grip.

 

Sherlock's face crumpled and he returned John's embrace desperately, pushing his forehead into the space between John's neck and shoulder and clinging on for dear life. "I love you," he murmured again, tears dampening John's jumper and his neck. He kissed John's neck wetly, the salty taste of his own tears sparking on his tongue.

 

Oh.

 

Sherlock meant...

 

John's heart stopped and his breath hitched. Sherlock was saying that he loved _him_. John Hamish Watson. His fingers twitched on Sherlock's back, and he could feel the wetness seeping through his wool jumper, the tears of truth and sincerity being spilled from the eyes of Sherlock Holmes.

 

John shook in the man's arms, and took a long, ragged breath before pulling back and smashing their lips together.

 

John didn't know yet if he was in love with his chemistry teacher. But god, he wanted to find out.

 

He eagerly kissed the Alpha, grabbing him forcefully by the shirt and with a vise hold keeping him exactly where he wanted. John's tongue broke through the pillowy barrier and explored Sherlock's mouth without discretion or care. He was going to learn every fiber of this man by heart.

 

Sherlock moaned into John's mouth, his forehead furrowing in concentration and he allowed John to learn his mouth. He whimpered softly and tears continued to fall from his eyes as John kissed him, the wetness sliding into his mouth and flavouring the kiss with his emotions. He was almost shaking, but John held him tight and close, and Sherlock let him. 

 

Gradually, the kiss slowed into something softer, something gentler and infinitely more loving. Sherlock's hands drifted down to John's back, heels of his palms brushing John's sides as his fingers pulled John to the edge of the couch. "Closer," he murmured, taking John's lower lip between his own and tugging. He pulled the Omega close, slowly kissing him. Minutes ran together and Sherlock lost count of the number of kisses he and John were exchanging, embraces changing and blending together.

 

John found himself with his limbs completely wrapped around Sherlock, clinging for dear life and lips mashing together seemingly into one self-conscious organism. He pulled back, minutes later and tried to catch his breath, his exhale heating up Sherlock's face. "Christ," he whispered, before pressing his lips to the man's again eagerly, and pulled away again, holding Sherlock's face in his hands. John panted thickly. "'S not fair. God, it's not fair... you're so... phenomenal..."

 

"Not as incredible as you are. You're growing a human, John." Sherlock slid his hands onto John's belly, a wobbly smile playing on his lips. "I just played a part in putting it there. You're doing all the work." Sherlock leaned forward and kissed him again, lips sliding against John's, softly, sweetly.

 

"'S your fault," John teased. He squeezed the man closer to him with his thighs, and gasped when he realised his own hardness as it brushed against Sherlock's chest. "Oh, God..." John blushed and recoiled. "S-sorry, I... I'm not usually..." All they did was kiss, and he was as hard as diamonds.

 

"Oh," Sherlock breathed. John was aroused. So was Sherlock, but not as obviously so. "John, it's fine." He pulled the Omega close again, holding him there and feeling John's arousal against his abdomen. "I…John, may I…take you to bed? Will you come to bed with me?" He looked up at John's face, searching and hoping that John wanted the same thing Sherlock did. To be close, in the most intimate way possible.

 

John blinked in surprise, breath still heavy and uneven, trying to read Sherlock's face just as determined. He stayed stoically still, eyes locked on the Alpha's, which strangely... were devoid of lust. They didn't contain that dark lust that they once had, the first time, the heat. Sherlock... wanted to make love with him? No, that wasn't what they did. They were... flatmates. A student and a teacher. Who cared for each other, dearly. It just so happened that one was carrying the other's baby.

 

First the proclamation of love, and now this. It was all too good to be true. Sherlock was sincere, and he wanted it, he wanted _John_ , and not just because he was a pretty little Omega to fuck. There was more to it than that.

 

John's eyes started to water, and his face went red, a whimper escaping his throat, and he nodded to Sherlock, giving his assent, and buried his face into Sherlock's neck. "Y-yes. Yes. Oh, God, _yes_."

 

"It's okay, John," Sherlock comforted, unsure why the boy was crying. Out of shame? Embarrassment? Fear? "You don't have to, if you don't want to. But I'm not going to hurt you, John. I ask out of sincerity. If this is too much too quickly, tell me." Sherlock held John close, stroking his back and hoping he hadn't misinterpreted John's arousal. 

 

John gave a tremble but didn't stop crying, only held Sherlock closer, breathing in his scent. After a minute or two more of sobbing, John took a few calming breaths and pulled back, wiping his eyes with his sleeve, and a wobbly smile forming on his lips. "N-no, Sherlock, it's... I'm saying _yes_. I want to. God, I... I want to. _Please_. It's... hormones, I..." John took Sherlock's chin and brought his face level with his own. He laughed wetly. "I'm just... really happy. Yes. Yes, yes. Take me to bed. Please. Take me."

 

"I will, John."

 

* * *

 

Sherlock undressed John slowly and reverently. Pulling his jumper up over his stomach, over his sensitive nipples and off his arms, widening the neck hole until he could lift it off without catching John's ears or nose. Caressing every inch of newly exposed skin; belly, chest, ribs, arms alike. 

 

Kneeling then, and holding John by the hips, Sherlock pressed kisses to the man's swollen middle. One hand slid down to pull John's belly band down, and then take his trousers and pants along with it. John was hard, and his cock bobbed in the air, short and thick like the rest of his body. "Beautiful," Sherlock sighed, and nuzzled the curve of John's belly beside his hip bone. "Beautiful all over." 

 

He helped the Omega out of his trousers one leg at a time, and then pulled his socks off, leaving him stand there nude for Sherlock to admire. Short, stocky, fit save for the growing belly on his middle, John was lovely. Sherlock stepped forward and slid his hands down John's back, dipping his head to kiss him.

 

John caught Sherlock's lips and caressed them gently between his own, savouring the contact, the sheer calm of the kiss, the idea that time couldn't possibly be wasted if it was spent like this. John's cheeks were still hot from Sherlock's whispered compliments, and he brought his hands up Sherlock's back to rest on his shoulder blades. Gentle swaying and kissing, lost in each other, John finally realised Sherlock was still clothed. 

 

He didn't speak, only used his hands, flowing forward to meet Sherlock's zip, undoing his trousers and pushing them down around his knees without breaking the kiss. The shirt buttons were next, skilled fingers prying them carefully open, eager, but not too quickly. John wanted to savour this. This wouldn't be at all like the first time. He pushed the shirt down the man's shoulders, and let him toss it aside, and John tore away to look at that perfectly toned chest, with just a sprinkle of light chest hair. John kissed the errant freckles on his shoulders and chest, hands sliding to the Alpha's pants and hooking his fingers in them.

 

John's fingers set his nerves alight. Everywhere the Omega touched warmed, and Sherlock felt his body respond to the attention. His cock began to harden, pulses of blood filling it with every quick beat of his heart. Sherlock slid his fingers into John's hair as he pulled off his black cotton pants, signalling wordlessly not to touch him there yet. Undressing was enough for now. Sherlock wanted time to learn John's body before John began attending to Sherlock's needs.

 

John gave an understanding nod, and couldn't appreciate the intent more. He leaned down to completely free Sherlock from his trousers, pants, and socks, straightening up with a grunt; more work than he expected it to be. The boy smiled gently and stepped forward to simply embrace the man, their naked bodies colliding, warmth moulding into one radiance. John slid his fingertips up Sherlock's spine, feeling each disc and segment, mentally counting them until he reached the spinal cervix, tracing a finger around the bone. "Gorgeous. Completely and utterly perfect." John pressed his lips to Sherlock's shoulder, sucking ever so lightly.

 

Sherlock shuddered forward when John's lips met his shoulder, gently sucking at the skin and sending shivers radiating outwards. Sherlock's arms encircled John's body, and he bent his head until his forehead rested on John's shoulder, back slightly arched in a slouch. "Wonderful," he murmured, his hands putting light pressure on John's sacrum.

 

John moaned in surprise when he felt precise hands press into his lower back, soothing the pain he hadn't realised he'd had. He mouthed at Sherlock's neck, nipping with blunt, inwardly-curled lips, and rested his hands on the man's hips. "That's good," he whispered. Gently, John slid his hands around to rest on Sherlock's plush, perfectly round cheeks; he didn't squeeze, only ran his hands over them sensually, his rough palms met with silky skin.

 

Sherlock sighed and turned his head to kiss the crest of John's shoulder, gentle presses up and down the curve of his neck. John tasted faintly of sweat, smelt of laundry detergent and aftershave, and his skin was smooth and unmarked. Sherlock left one hand on John's lower back and slid the other up his back, grasping gently at a protruding shoulder blade. "John," he murmured, softly nipping the Omega's neck, "May I take you to bed now?"

 

John gave a gentle keen at the kisses to his neck, and arched his back, enough so that his belly met Sherlock's. He brought his hands up to grip the man's hips, and tilted his head submissively. "Y-yes."

 

He didn't know why he was nervous; sex wasn't something unfamiliar to him. That wasn't to say John would have just anyone in bed, but he'd romped in the sheets enough times that nothing was surprising, and it even didn't hurt so much. He understood the mechanics, and he knew what felt good. At least with Betas. An Alpha would be different. And he hoped not so rough, even though they would be outside of heat. Okay, so perhaps John _didn't_ know what to expect.

 

He was laid down on the bed, onto his back, and Sherlock crawled up to cage him with long limbs, looming over him. It felt strangely exactly as it should. This Alpha encasing him, protecting him and the child squirming in his belly, and looking completely enamoured with the Omega below him. John looked up at Sherlock with eager eyes, and gave a gentle smile.

 

Sherlock leant down and kissed John on the mouth for a few moments, one hand caressing John's side while the other braced and held him up. He slid down until his mouth met John's neck once more, and slowly he made his journey down John's body. He trailed kisses along the Omega's shoulders, across his chest, down over the crest of his belly and dipping into the curves of his hips. 

 

Sherlock's tongue lapped at the crease of thigh and groin, inhaling the scent of John's arousal. He left wet kisses down John's muscular thighs, the backs of his knees, the sides of his legs. He pressed closed-mouth kisses to John's feet, left and right in turn, and then worked his way back up. 

 

Pausing only briefly to look up at John and see the expression of bliss and arousal on his face, Sherlock slid a hand beneath John's left thigh and raised it over his shoulder. His head ducked down into the now-larger gap between John's legs, down and down until his nose was brushing the pucker of John's entrance. 

 

Tightly closed now, outside of heat, the pink ring of muscle twitched in anticipation. Sherlock's tongue slid from between his lips and oh so tentatively lapped at John's entrance.

 

"A-ah, _Sherlock_ ," John cried in surprise, his toes curling and his fingers gripping at the sheets below. "Oh, god, I've... no one's... yes..." He muttered incoherently, trying to get out that he'd never had this done to him before. Betas would never go near that area with their mouths, it was filthy, and here Sherlock was, tongue eager to breech the puckered hole, and-- oh god, there it was.

 

John could feel it, the wriggling muscle entering just enough to begin working him open and tease him. His cock twitched and he mewled in ecstasy, doing his best not to writhe away from the incredible feeling. "K-keep going, please..."

 

Sherlock hummed and delved in further, feeling John's taste change as his body began to lubricate. His nose was pressed firmly against John's perineum as he pushed his tongue in as deep as he could, gently working John open with every motion. With John's thigh on top of Sherlock's right shoulder, he was able to reach up with his right hand and cup John's buttock and hip, lifting him and pulling him closer.

 

John's breath hitched and his body trembled briefly, and both hands slid under the pillow beneath his head, gripping it with all his might. The pleasure was almost too much. He panted heavily and whined, tensing his body so he wouldn't buck. "Stop, stop, I'm gonna come if you keep that up," he bit out urgently.

 

Sherlock withdrew and worked his jaw for a few moments, a smile playing across his reddened lips when he saw John's expression of desperate pleasure. Moving up to sit back on his knees, Sherlock laid a hand on John's thigh. "Tell me if anything becomes uncomfortable, John. I do not wish to hurt you." Sherlock gently slid two fingers into John's loose opening, happy to find that he was relaxed. "Are you ready?"

 

John caught up with his breath, the fingers inside of him not as intense as the tongue, but keeping him aroused, nonetheless. He closed his eyes a moment, processing that he was about to have intimate sex, not rough heat sex, with Sherlock Holmes, the man he was slowly falling in love with. At least, he thought that's what it was, and hoped. John licked his lips and opened his eyes, now glazed over with desire. "Yes. Yes, I'm ready. But..." John out a firm hand on his shoulder. "Let's... take it slow. Don't want to jostle our boy around too much."

 

"Of course." Sherlock pulled John's legs to wrap around him and took his own hardened prick in hand, guiding the tip to breach John's hole and biting his lip at the expected but wonderful heat. Slowly, very slowly to avoid hurting John or jostling the baby, Sherlock pushed in until he was buried in John's core. "Beautiful," he sighed, looking down at where they were connected.

 

John wrapped his arms around Sherlock's neck and tossed his head back onto the pillow, moaning low as his canal was completely filled. He wasn't sure if it was the sensitivity that came with being pregnant, or the much larger and filling Alpha cock - probably both - but John's body was tingling everywhere, and his vision was blurred with splotches of colours. "Ohh, Sherlock... 'S perfect. Perfect. Just like I remember... f-from the first time..."

 

"I won't knot you this time. It's not necessary, anymore. We're free of pheromones this time. Just you and I, now." _And the baby,_ Sherlock thought, a shot of arousal sparking in his groin at the knowledge that last time, the first time he'd been seated inside John, he'd left behind his baby. 

 

Sherlock allowed John a few more moments to acclimatise, and then withdrew slightly, pushing back in and establishing a slow, deep, pulsing rhythm. "You feel incredible, John," he breathed.

 

John took a few long breaths before he gasped, the slow thrust sending in a whole new wave of pleasure. He popped his head back up to gaze at Sherlock, his eyes half lidded and seemingly already fatigued. He clenched around the thick cock that filled him, and pushed back down on him, deciding that he needed more. " _Incredible_ ," John repeated.

 

"Yes," Sherlock hissed, and grasped John's thigh to pull him down further, wrap his leg tighter around Sherlock's lean waist. Satisfied for the moment, Sherlock laid that hand on John's rounded stomach, over the place where their son grew. "Amazing."

 

John gave a small cry, all of these sensations in tandem with the large hand on the sensitive skin of his belly had him feeling almost overstimulated. He panted, his eyes rolling back and his fingers curling into Sherlock's hair desperately. "S-so good, Sherlock... this…look…look what you did…you did this, you m-made me this way…full of your perfect little baby..."

 

"Ssh, John, I know. Just relax. We're taking it slow. Learning you." Sherlock smiled and continued the slow, deep rhythm he'd set, pushing deep into John and withdrawing before pushing in again. "It's incredible, watching you grow with our baby. Thank you."

 

John gripped Sherlock's cock with his arse, squeezing it in and gasping. He wanted to take it slow, too, but his body was much too excited. He bit down on his lip, trying to will his body to relax. "F-feels too good..." He muttered, taking a few long breaths before his body sagged enough, enough for what was happening. "Thanking me? For…for what?" He asked quietly, looking up at Sherlock.

 

"For keeping the baby," Sherlock said softly. "I…I'm glad you did." Sherlock's hand on John's stomach twitched and pressed against the bulge, and his eyes shut as he struggled to keep his rhythm while his brain derailed. "I love our baby. I love you."

 

John licked his lips in thought, and readjusted his legs around Sherlock. He wasn't sure if he should say it back. He didn't want to say it, and mean it, only to have his heart broken again. John couldn't bring himself to say it.

 

So instead, he went with an enthusiastic moan and lolled his head back. His hands explored the jungle of dark chocolate curls, and he thought absently that this must be what heaven felt like. "Deeper. Deeper, please," John breathed.

 

Sherlock noticed John's evasion, but didn't take it as a personal offence. He'd hurt John, and he knew it took time to recover from a hurt as deep as the one Sherlock had caused. 

 

He did his best to push into John as deeply as he could. If John were riding him, it might give the Omega the depth he wanted, but he wanted it like this, watching John beneath him. Letting John enjoy, and letting Sherlock do the work.

 

Sherlock reached a hand beneath John's hip and pulled him up, trying to change the angle and hit John's pleasure centre. He wasn't going to do so with his knot, not this time, so he'd have to work a bit harder. "Is that good, John?" he panted.

 

"Ohh," John groaned, " _perfect_." He panted heavily and slid his hands down so his fingers pressed into Sherlock's back. He held him firmly, as if trying to move him manually, and urged a slightly faster pace. "God, don't stop, never stop..."

 

Sherlock closed his eyes and smiled, leaning over and pushing into John harder, deeper. "You feel so good, John. So good." He could feel his stomach brushing against the bump of John's with each thrust, and the knowledge that _he_ had put that bump there was astonishing. He'd given John that baby.

 

John moaned excitedly, arching his back so his hard cock was caught between Sherlock's stomach and his own. He hissed in satisfaction, thrusting between the hot skin. "God, your prick was _made_ for me. You're touching _everything_." 

 

"Not…just…yet," Sherlock gritted his teeth in concentration and took his hand off John's stomach, moving it to his opposite hip and picking him up to roll his hips downwards just slightly. "Trying to find it. Hard, from this angle. Tell me…what to do," he said, tipping his own hips to angle himself to hit John's prostate.

 

John's eyes flicked behind his eye lids once more and he groaned eagerly. Sherlock was actually _trying_ to find his prostate. Actually trying to give him the most fulfillment from this experience. It made warmth pool into his stomach, and John grinned in bliss as he moaned. "Just... Just keep going, I... ooh, lift me up just a _bit_ more..."

 

Sherlock responded instantly, hitching John up just a little more and drawing in a sharp breath when John contracted around him. "Found it," he breathed, and increased his pace just a little, trying to strike John's gland with every thrust.

 

John's mouth fell open and his entire body went rigid, and he lay there completely aghast as Sherlock thrust into him, hitting his sweet spot nearly every time. "Ohhhh God!" He finally cried, and wrapped his arms tighter around the man. He brought his head forward, shutting his eyes tight and nuzzling into Sherlock's shoulder as he held on. "I'm... I'm close, Sherlock, I... fuck, I'm close..."

 

"Yes, John. Yes," Sherlock hissed, pushing into John harder and deeper. He was nearing completion himself. His thighs started to shake and his testicles tightened up to his body, and his breathing increased as he tried to bring John off by penetration alone. "Tell me what you need," he grunted, holding John tight.

 

John was at a complete loss for words, pushing back onto Sherlock desperately, slamming the other's prick into his prostate relentlessly. He grit his teeth, small whimpers escaping his throat. "Don't... stop..." he grunted, "don't ever... fucking... stop..."

 

_Don't ever stop loving me. Don't ever stop this._

 

"Never," Sherlock grunted, and gripped so hard onto John's hips that he feared he might bruise them. "You're mine John, you're. You're mine."

 

John felt tears pricking at the corners of his eyes, not sure if it was from squeezing them so tight, or emotions attempting to escape. He gave a strangled cry and his body jerked, unexpectedly coming, ribbons of ejaculate splattering across his own belly and Sherlock's stomach. " _Sherlock_! Oh, fuck, Sherlock!"

 

"John," Sherlock moaned, and managed a few more thrusts before pushing as deeply into John's body as he could and coming. He pumped through his orgasm, his stomach rippling and nerves sparking with pleasure. He was coming hard, harder even than he had during John's heat, but this time he was himself, not masked by pheromones and lust. He could _watch_ John as he came, see the look on the Omega's face as orgasm swept over him. 

 

When his prick gave a final pulse and the last waves of pleasure seeped out of his body, Sherlock looked down at John's blissed-out face and smiled. "You're amazing," he breathed, leaning down to kiss John's neck.

 

John shuddered when his neck was caressed by perfect lips, and his toes curled. "Ungh. Not... not as amazing as... you. Or _that_ ," he breathed, referring to the mind-blowing sex.

 

" _That_ was only amazing because of you," Sherlock smiled, extending a hand downwards and caressing John's belly. "You're very responsive. I hadn't noticed the first time 'round. This was much more satisfactory."

 

"Both were amazing," John argued, sagging into the pillows and sheets below him. "God, that…you're great. So generous…filling, too. It's like you read my mind, you know exactly what I want and how to go about it..." He sighed and rubbed his face in the pillow. "Mind cleaning me off? Exhausted..."

 

"You're working hard," Sherlock murmured. "It's not surprising." He pulled out of John slowly, a gasp escaping his lips as his sensitive skin slid across John's. Padding out of the room, a hand smoothing back errant curls, Sherlock smiled. That had been exactly what he wanted, and he was glad it was what John had wanted, too. 

 

He retrieved a clean cloth from the cupboard and wet it with warm water, wringing out the excess and walking back to where John lay, breathing more steady now, on the bed. He crossed the room and climbed back onto the mattress, sitting cross-legged beside John and gently wiping the come and sweat from John's stomach and hips, and then tending to his own. 

 

Sherlock tossed the flannel to lay on their discarded clothes, and then shifted once more until he was sitting beside John's head. He pulled the Omega up until John's head and shoulders were pillowed in his lap. He stroked John's hair gently, tracing the outline of his ear and his strong jaw.

 

John exhaled slowly and relaxed into the man's gentle caresses. "Don't want to go back to school," he whispered. Winter break was nearly done, and they would have to resume their positions as a teacher and student. Leaving all this behind. Yes, John would still be coming home to Baker Street in the evenings, but he knew Sherlock worked long hours, and taught night classes. There wouldn't be time for this. "Don't want to miss this."

 

"You won't miss this. You'll still be coming home…to me…every night," Sherlock murmured. "I've given up teaching my night classes. Tenure. I only have three lectures and labs during the day, and I'm yours every evening." He closed his eyes, still stroking John's hair. "It will be hard. But we can make it through."

 

John's eyes opened an he blinked. "What, really? When'd this happen?" he questioned. He really hoped it wasn't because of him.

 

"With the baby coming, and you getting further into your gestation, I thought it would be better to be home more often. So I cut back my hours. My salary is still the same, so don't fret about a loss of income." Sherlock looked down and smiled. "This is more important to me than teaching night chemistry courses."

 

John exhaled and made a bit of a face. "Look, Sherlock, I'm really flattered and all, but... you didn't have to do that. It isn't necessary. You love teaching chemistry, and I can look after myself. Besides, the baby isn't due to arrive until the week after the term ends. It'd be fine, if you wanted to teach those night classes."

 

"My responsibility now is to you. I wouldn't have changed my schedule if I wasn't willing. I _want_ to be here, both with and for you." Sherlock patted John's cheek and slid down to lie next to John. "But if you don't want me here, I can find some other way to pick up extra hours. Tutoring inept students, perhaps."

 

John rolled his eyes. "Now _that_ you'd hate. No, don't do that. Of course I want you here." He slipped his fingers into Sherlock's mussed curls and sighed, a small smile playing on his lips. "Just... Just thank you. For everything. It... I mean it. All that you've done for me."

 

"You're always welcome, John." Sherlock couldn't find the words to apologise for his initial behavior, or to express his gratitude for their mutual change in heart, but he thought John probably felt the same. He smiled and scooted closer, slinging an arm over John's waist.

 

John's eyes slipped closed, finding himself suddenly tired, and yawned softly, a fist over his mouth. He stretched out his legs and groaned in satisfaction once he'd heard a few pops, and nuzzled his nose into Sherlock's cheek.

 

Just on the cusp of sleep, John chuckled breathily when he felt a lethargic roll from inside his belly. "Think we lulled him to sleep..."

 

"Mm, he's tired just like his daddy." Sherlock slid his hand down to cup John's belly, and smiled sleepily when he was able to detect just a hint of the baby's movement. "Go to sleep, I'll be here when you wake up."

 

"Promise?" John asked innocently, placing his own hand over Sherlock's.

 

Sherlock turned his palm so he could wrap his fingers tightly around John's. "Promise."


	11. Chapter 11

John gave the cashier a warm smile to counter her sympathetic one; he didn't need these pitying looks just because he was pregnant - rather obviously now. But he seemed to be receiving them more and more often. John carried his tray over to the small table where Mike Stamford and Bill Murray were waiting for him, his friends giving him wide grins, clearly excited to see him.

 

He set down his food, thanking Bill when he pulled out a chair for him, and eased down with a grunt, scooting in. John took a sip of his water and ate half a chip before speaking. "Hey, guys. Long time no see. What've you two been up to, eh?"

 

"Not much as compared to you," Mike joked, looking pointedly down at John's stomach and grinning. "You're getting big, mate. How long to go yet?"

 

John cocked a crooked grin, his face flushing and pride beaming from his eyes. "I, uh. Still nineteen weeks. Just hit halfway. He's due to come the week after term ends, so that's a good thing. Won't be missing any exams. Oh! And it's a boy, if you caught that." He grinned, giving the top of his belly a gentle pat.

 

Bill laughed. "Blimey, only halfway? You'd think you had two in there."

 

"Oi, I might be up the duff, but I'll still kick you into next Sunday, Bill," John threatened playfully.

 

"Don't taunt 'im, Bill, we don't want him to pop early," Mike chuckled, and took a swig of his water. "Seriously, though, John, congrats. A boy. You'll be a good dad."

 

"Hope so. Better than my dad, at least," John said with a sigh. He looked down at his stomach and then back up to his friends with a smirk. "You blokes want to feel him? He's a bit jumpy. Think he hears all this commotion-- _Not you_ , Bill, keep your barbecue sauce fingers off my stomach, you savage. Wipe your hands first."

 

"Oh, he's moving? Didn't know they moved this early," Mike said, but turned in his chair to face John. "Yeah, that'd be grand. Just tell me, erm, where to put my hand, I guess," he said, drumming his fingers on his thigh.

 

John took Mike's wrist and placed his hand close to his navel, where he could feel little limbs rolling and twitching about. "Yeah, I've been feeling him since before holiday, but he wasn't big enough yet to be felt from the outside." He smiled and looked to Bill who was trying to lick his fingers clean of barbecue sauce and John laughed. "Mate, that's disgusting, paws off."

 

Bill looked offended. "I wasn't going to waste it," he complained, then showed his hands to John. "See, clean."

 

"Fine, when Mike's done. He's only really kicking just here."

 

"Blimey, John." Mike withdrew his hand and looked at it, as though it was some sort of conduit for baby movement. "That's gotta feel strange. Does he move like that all the time?"

 

"Not all the time, no," John said. "Typically he's just responding to things. Like if I eat something sugary, he gets wound up, and if there's a loud noise, he'll give a sudden kick in response like he's scared. And he's tired when I'm tired, blood pressure lowering. And he likes... certain people's voices." John blushed, almost giving away too much.

 

"Oh? That's weird, that he can hear. Hey, baby!" Mike leaned over and spoke exaggeratedly to John's stomach. "Hey, this is Mike. I'm a friend of your dad's." He grinned and looked up at John. "What d'you think, eh? Does he like my voice?"

 

John cackled and pushed Mike's face away. "Not when you talk like that, you dolt. You just sound dumb. Talk to him like you would a normal, adult person."

 

Bill waited, and John gave a nod, giving him permission to feel his belly. The boy grinned and gave John a nod of approval. "That's pretty cool. Bet he liked me better than Mike, though."

 

Mike huffed good-naturedly and crossed his arms, leaning back in his chair. "Yeah, yeah, yeah. So then, aside from growing a baby, what've you been doing?"

 

John blinked, knowing he shouldn't be surprised by the question. "I mean, not much," John shrugged. "Just getting settled into the flat. Adjusted pretty quickly, actually. I, er... suppose I need to get started on buying things for the baby." He'd have to bring this up with Sherlock, too. "And... spent a bit of time with, uh... the baby's father."

 

God, why had he gone and said that? It didn't make any sense. He'd told Mike and Bill that the baby's father had been a one night stand, a platonic friend that he spent his heat with, and definitely not a romantic interest.

 

Mike blinked. "You went back home to spend time with the bloke what knocked you up? What'd he have to say for himself, eh? Is he gonna pay child support?"

 

John's eyes widened slightly, and he put his hands up defensively. "I... No, no, it's... Well. He agreed to help see me through this, and do what he could for me and the baby." That wasn't technically a lie. "He's... providing financial support, yes."

 

Bill didn't look very amused, either. "I wouldn't take his sodding money. Money isn't worth shite if he's not going to be 'round for your kid."

 

Mike leaned forward. "Now, I'm not tellin' you how to run your life, mate, but I wouldn't trust him further than I could throw him. He left you like this, and yeah it's goin' well so far but I'd get it in writing that he's gonna help you out."

 

John frowned. God, all of this would be so much easier to explain if he could just say who the baby's father _really_ was. They…they had very valid points, though.

 

John nodded and looked down to his belly, stroking a hand over it gently. "Yeah, you're right. That... would be a good thing to do."

 

Except he couldn't. Ever. Not if he wanted to stay in school, not if he wanted Sherlock to continue teaching.

 

Mike clapped John on the shoulder. "Alright, alright, enough of this baby nonsense." He shoved John's tray toward him, and pulled his own lunch closer to himself. Popping a chip in his mouth, he grinned. "Have you been keeping up with rugby? The team's looking great this season! Now, I…"

 

John laughed and leaned forward. "No, can't say I've been watching much. Catch me up?" 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ending's a bit ambiguous, but it just sort of fades out as other less interesting conversations commence.


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And so it begins.

Sherlock tried not to look at John any more than any other student that walked in, but damn, it was a lot harder than it should have been. He walked in with a group of friends, a few Alphas and Betas, all chatting - sharing stories of time spent over break, most likely. 

 

John looked up and shot Sherlock a shy smile, and Sherlock returned it quickly before refocussing on his papers. Once all the students had filed in and the doors were closed, Sherlock cleared his throat. 

 

"Welcome back from break. I hope you all had your requisite fun and will be able to buckle down for your second semester in my course. Your exam grades were…passable, for the most part. I will pass those back now. If you wish to contest an answer or your grade, you must do so in person within the week." 

 

As he passed the exams around, Sherlock looked at John. His heart swelled with something akin to love, and he had to work entirely too hard to keep from rubbing the boy's shoulder as he passed. 

 

This was going to be difficult. 

 

Things were going to have to change.

 

John's face was hot as the professor occasionally passed him as he returned the first semester exams in alphabetical order, knowing he would be last. He licked his lips and tried to keep his eyes down, not wanting to look at Sherlock for too long. He knew he couldn't make it obvious.

 

But god, did he look good in that shirt he'd bought him for Christmas.

 

John awkwardly shifted, feeling his cock twitch in interest, and he focused heavily in on a nick in the desk he was sitting at…trying to think about anything but Sherlock's body in that tight shirt and snug trousers.

 

He smiled, though, when his paper was slid in front of him, and he gazed up to give Sherlock a confident smile as he began toward the front of the lecture hall again. John flipped over the face down paper, and grinned when he saw his grade. Not perfect, of course, but pretty damn good. Christ, that was relieving. He worked hard studying for that exam, and only received a bit of extra help from Professor Holmes, as much as anyone else had. "Brilliant," he whispered to himself, beaming.

 

Sherlock could feel John's eyes on him as he walked about the lecture hall. God, he shouldn't have worn the new shirt. The boy was almost being obvious. Almost. 

 

"Alright, now that you're all looking through your exams, we'll go over the answers. Question one was a simple…" 

 

* * *

 

As the students shuffled out, some morosely as they sulked about their failed exams and others victorious over As and Bs, Sherlock looked up to see John still sitting in his seat. Not today. Not today, John couldn't linger. If he came down to see Sherlock, Sherlock was going to want to _touch_ him, was going to want to _talk_ to him in a way that professors were not to talk to students. Too familiar. 

 

Oh, no. John was coming down to talk.

 

John smiled as he slowly made his way down the steps, one hand clutching the strap of his book bag, and the other cradling his belly. He stopped in front of Sherlock's desk and huffed out a breath, the steps apparently being more work than he bargained for. "Hey," he said, shifting around. "I just wanted to ask you something, won't take long. It's about the exam. Mike, er, wanted to know if, well, he could make a meeting with you sometime this week to go over the exam again. He just didn't get the last two chapters and... was too embarrassed to ask for help. Thinks you're intimidating." John smirked.

 

He grinned as he felt the little feet from the inside of his belly pattering away, and didn't think, instinctively grabbing Sherlock's hand and putting it there. "Oh, feel that?"

 

"No," Sherlock almost yelped, and pulled his hand back, nearly pulling John off balance. He looked up and saw John's concerned expression. "I can't…that's too familiar, John. I…we can't…" 

 

He cleared his throat and shuffled a few remaining papers. "Yes, ask Mr Stamford to send me an email with times that work for him. I haven't had any other students schedule appointments yet, so all my office hours are free." He glanced up and held back a wince at John's expression. "If that was all, then, Jo- Mr Watson."

 

It hurt. John knew it was necessary, but it still hurt. And he was sure his face demonstrated just how shattered he felt. He knew it wasn't appropriate, to be so familiar with a professor. None of this was really appropriate, was it?

 

John knew Sherlock was just looking out for him; he didn't want to raise suspicion, seeing the professor with his hand on a student's pregnant stomach, or hanging around too long. John understood. He just didn't like it, at all. And the damned hormones made him feel like he was about to cry.

 

"I... Yeah, that's it. Yeah. Thanks…professor."

 

John blew out a breath and turned on his heels to ascend the stairs again, making sure he was near the door when he furiously rubbed at his eyes. God, this wasn't something to be upset over. It was... logical.

 

Sherlock slammed his briefcase shut and laid his head in his hands. 

 

He couldn't go home and be one way with John there, and be the polar opposite when he went back to teach. 

 

There was only one solution. It wasn't prudent to treat John as a mate while he was teaching, and he wouldn't be able to manage two separate lives. 

 

John had said he could take care of himself. Sherlock would go back to being Professor Holmes, and John was just a flatmate, a student in need. Nothing more, nothing less. 

 

It would work. It had to. 

 

But why did he feel so sick over it?


	13. Chapter 13

There was a wall.

 

Not a physical wall, but there might as well have been. Maybe John just couldn't see it. Maybe John was a wall of electrons propelling the proton-charged Sherlock away.

 

Because he certainly wasn't getting anywhere fucking close to him.

 

There was distance at school, which John understood. They couldn't even remotely allow people to believe they were familiar with each other, and if they were found out of being intimately involved, their lives were over. John accepted he needed to keep physical and emotional distance away from the teacher, he could handle that. 

 

It was the distance at home that bothered him.

 

They ate meals together, they exchanged small talk, they even shared the same bed, now. Well, they would be, if Sherlock weren't getting up and moving to the couch in the middle of the night.

 

John had approached Sherlock about this, asking if he was snoring or tossing and turning too much, to which Sherlock only gave a short 'no', and that was the end of the conversation.

 

Sherlock's interest in John's belly, it seemed, had vanished entirely. He wouldn't touch him there, or at all, and it made John feel positively revolting. It was his changing body, he thought. It was _disgusting_.

 

John tried to not let it bother him. Maybe Sherlock was just stressed with work. He could fix that, he knew he could. The man just needed to let loose a little.

 

John padded out into the living room, where he knew Sherlock was working on grading the February tests, and leaned in the doorway. He was clad only in an oversized grey t-shirt to account for his belly, and his rather scandalising red pants. John rubbed a hand over his six month pregnant stomach slowly, enticingly, fingers splayed and massaging sensually. John arched his back, pushing his belly out just a bit more, before lowering his eyelids and smirking, purring the man's name.

 

"Sherlock…can you come here, please...?" John breathed huskily.

 

"What is it, John," Sherlock said. "I'm busy." When John's only response was a breathy sigh, Sherlock turned around and only barely managed to hold back a gasp. 

 

The past few weeks had been excruciating; treating John as though he meant nothing more to Sherlock than any other student. Holding back the touches and words that he'd become so accustomed to sharing, denying John's requests to feel as their baby became stronger. Maintaining the proper physical and emotional distance from the Omega was almost physically painful, but it was necessary. It was necessary. 

 

Sherlock had to watch from a distance as John's belly swelled with their baby, and though his Alpha nature screamed at him to touch, to feel, to smell, to kiss, Sherlock denied it. John was confused, annoyed, worried. He could read it in the Omega's pose, in the slight uptilt to the words at the end of a sentence that could mean more than what it seemed at face value. 

 

And now, it was obvious he wanted sex. And Sherlock was going to have to deny it, though he wanted nothing more than to pin the Omega against a wall and have him over and over until exhaustion set in. To claim him, to mark him, to own him. 

 

"What is it, John," he repeated, his jaw working with the effort of trying not to betray his desire. "Is something wrong?"

 

John scoffed and took a few steps closer, his brow furrowing. "What do you _think_ is wrong? You haven't touched me since Christmas holiday, and I'm swimming in hormones. Make a deduction, you're good at those." He pressed his hands into his lower back to support his weight, not bothering with the sexy poses anymore. "I'm randy. I want you to fuck me. It's not that bloody difficult to figure out."

 

"I'm sorry, John, but I'm busy." Sherlock looked John up and down once more, his prick growing hard at the sight but he betrayed no emotion or want. "Have a wank, you'll feel better when you've come."

 

John grit his teeth, exhaling thickly through his nose to calm himself. "You can spare 20 precious minutes, Sherlock Holmes. What, you don't want to have sex with me anymore? Am I that fucking repelling to you? You won't even look at me!"

 

Sherlock looked at John. 

 

He took in the Omega's flushed cheeks, his defensive posture, noticed the ache in his back that brought a slight limp to his gait. Saw the fire in his eyes, heard the anger in his tone. Saw the hurt in every square inch of his body. 

 

Sherlock sighed. 

 

Standing up, he looked John straight in the eye. "I apologise, John. You deserve better. An explanation, at the very least. Please sit down on the couch." 

 

He reached out, very near to touching John's lower back, aching to soothe the muscles and touch his Omega for the first time in weeks. 

 

He shoved his hand back into his trouser pocket. 

 

Sherlock sat diagonally from John, looking down at his knee and drumming his fingers on his own thigh. "You understand that we have to be physically and emotionally distant when at the university. I determined that the best way to ensure that neither of us slip up and act too familiar is for me to treat you as a student both on campus and at home. Does this make sense so far?"

 

John only blinked, his brow only furrowing further, as he glared daggers into Sherlock. This sounded fucking _brilliant_ so far. He was dying to hear more.

 

"Good. If I were to treat you as a student at school and then as a mate at home, the chances of either of us slipping up and being too familiar would increase almost exponentially. I know it's not a mutually satisfying solution, but it's the best one I could come up with. It is difficult, John. To hold back my feelings for you. But it is what's best." 

 

Sherlock took a deep breath and looked up at John. The Omega looked furious. "And…besides," Sherlock added, more quietly, "you said you could take care of yourself."

 

John could feel his entire body bubbling with rage, the internal heat surely creating an inferno around him. His nostrils flared, and his eyes were pooled with oil, dark, instead of the vibrant blue.

 

After a few long moments of staring at Sherlock, which felt like ages to the other man, John spoke in an eerily calm tone beneath his breath. "Well, if that's the bloody case... Then I don't need to stay here at all, do I? I can take care of myself, right? _You're_ certainly not benefiting me in any way, so I should just leave, shouldn't I?"

 

"No, no, John, I never - I never insinuated that at all," Sherlock defended, moving to sit on the edge of his chair. "No, I still wish to be involved and to support you. I just don't think that being involved emotionally is wise at this point, to risk our relationship becoming public. Please don't take offence. The flat is still yours to use, and I'm more than happy - I truly do wish to help you by paying bills and being…there…for you. Just not emotionally or physically. Not right now." Sherlock bit his lip. This wasn't going how he had planned, how he had hoped, at all.

 

"What relationship?" John asked bitterly. "The relationship where you decide that I'm supposed to get an abortion, the relationship where you decide that you want to be involved after everything you did to me, the relationship where you decide how we interact at home? That's not a relationship I'm going to be a part of, Sherlock, not any more." John abruptly stood and stomped off to their... Sherlock's bedroom. He was going to pack his things, and he was leaving.

 

Sherlock's heart stopped for a moment. His body ceased to function, blood ran cold and icicles formed in his veins. John was going to leave. He - his John, he was. No! 

 

"John, John don't, I'll. We'll work something else out, I should have asked for your input, I. John, don't hurt yourself, your heart rate's too high, the - the baby. John! John, don't leave. Please. Please don't leave. I…" fucked up, Sherlock. You fucked up. You got it all backwards, you fucked it up. "Please don't go. I-" need you.

 

John quickly stepped into a pair of track suit bottoms and grabbed one of Sherlock's suitcases from the closet; it was the least he could do. He threw open his drawer in the bureau and began throwing his unfolded clothes in. "Tell you what, I'll pay my own bloody bills. I'll get a job in the coffee shop at the university, there's an opening. You're right, I can take care of myself. I don't need you." He said levelly.

 

"John, please." Sherlock was begging. He was breaking down, he was decomposing from the inside out. It felt like he was coming apart on an atomic level, the chemicals and bonds inside him breaking more and more rapidly with each word John spoke, each piece of clothing John tossed into his suitcase. "Please, don't leave. I never meant to hurt you. I thought you'd understand. I made a mistake. I want to take care of you. I didn't mean - I never meant -" Sherlock clutched the bureau with one hand and held the other one out almost pleadingly. "John. John, please."

 

John ignored Sherlock, tuning him out as much as possible, which wasn't difficult with the pounding in his head, the ringing in his ears. John picked up the deep blue paternity jumper, gripping it before dropping it back into the drawer, and shutting it. The rest of his things were upstairs, but they weren't worth the extra time packing.

 

John struggled with zipping the suitcase, biting out segments of sentences as he tugged. "I'll... move in... with Mike... until I can find... a cheap flat to move into."

 

"Don't go. Please." Sherlock choked out brokenly, vision gone blurry. John was leaving. John had packed his things, John was leaving. "I can't - please don't. Don't leave. I love you. I love you, John, I love you don't leave."

 

John stopped, putting his hands on the suitcase, and he laughed. He laughed, and he hung his head, before turning to face Sherlock with a forced smile. "This whole... thing was bloody stupid, wasn't it? Really, me, raising a baby, with my teacher? God. What was I thinking? I should have denied you all the way through, I knew, I _knew_ it would end like this, and I still--" he broke off, a hand covering his mouth, as if to contain a sob, or even vomit. 

 

After a moment, after a long breath, John looked at Sherlock again, his heart aching. "You know, there might be one thing worse than believing that you loved me. Because I did, you fooled me. You fooled yourself too, I think." He said quietly. 

 

He swallowed down the lump in his throat, and picked up the suitcase, wheeling it out into the main room. He slid into his coat silently, and licked his lips before meeting the professor's eyes once more. "It's worse that you almost made _me_ love _you_. You're…you're a cruel man. A good teacher, a fine mentor, but…god, you're a real bastard." He whispered.

 

John reached into his coat pocket, and tossed his key to 221B on the couch, along with something else shiny, and silver, and loved.

 

"I'll see you in class Monday, Professor Holmes."

 

Sherlock watched John walk out the door, but he didn't feel anything. His heart wasn't pumping, blood wasn't moving in his chest. Was he still alive? 

 

He managed to make it to the couch, to put his hand over his gift to John and the key he'd left behind, before he broke down. Horrible, broken sobs wracked his body, tore holes in his skin and let the air whistle through. Blood dripped from every pore, tears seared trails like acid across his skin. He was drowning, he was suffocating, there were two silver daggers beneath his palm and he wanted to drive them through his heart. 

 

Sherlock wept. He cried until there were no more tears, he wailed silently until his throat was raw and his voice was hoarse and still he couldn't stop the wretched noises that scraped from his vocal chords. 

 

And the seven percent tincture, it wept too, tiny beaded droplets down the shiny smooth surface of the syringe. It wept into his veins, flooded his body until the wonderful relief soothed the ache, was like a balm over torn and roughened skin. 

 

John was gone. Sherlock was, too. At least for tonight.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *cries forever*


	14. Chapter 14

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TRIGGER WARNING: RAPE/NON-CON
> 
> I'm sorry guys, I need to make sure you understand that the beginning of this chapter has a non-graphic depiction of rape. If this triggers you, DO NOT READ. 
> 
> I'm sure the comments section will be a shitstorm, too. It wouldn't be a good fanfic without loads of conflict, right? ...right? *hides*

It wasn't as easy as John would have hoped, as far as things going back to what he considered normal. He was rooming in with Bill, now, whose roommate had dropped out of uni. He explained to his friend that the flat he'd rented he simply couldn't afford anymore. It was fine. He would need to find other arrangements before the term ended and the baby came, but it would be fine.

 

He missed the familiar scent of his child's father. He was craving it. His hormones were screaming at him that they needed the protection, but John pointedly ignored them. He could handle himself.

 

The baby was getting big now, making it difficult to get around. He was arguably waddling from place to place, having to heave himself up from sitting, and taking his time to sit down. The kicks were getting stronger (and annoying) and his back was aching more and more each day, but he knew he was only getting closer to holding his little boy.

 

John was hired to work in the coffee shop on campus, mostly out of pity for his situation, but he took what he could get. He was beginning to work up the cash, and if he was lucky, he'd be able to afford two months' rent in a flat on the west side of London by the time the baby was born.

 

He wouldn't be enrolling for school again. Not for a while, at least. He'd need to find a minimum wage job to keep himself afloat, and his son cared for.

 

It was a while before John started to feel some sort of happiness again. He knew Bill and Mike had a hunch that something wasn't fitting together, but they were being supportive of him entirely. It was nice to have them, and it was enough…but it wasn't what John really needed.

 

Chemistry was difficult, and not only because of the material. John couldn't help but notice how bland his instructor's voice had become, even more apathetic than usual. Professor Holmes loved science, but he lacked his usual vigour. John refused to believe he was the source of this melancholy.

 

John yelled and whooped, his face positively beaming as he watched Price kick the winning goal passed their opponent's goalie. He turned to Mike and cackled in happiness, before pulling the other excited boy into an enthusiastic hug, though Mike was careful of the large - nearly eight months pregnant - belly on John's front. Mike jumped up and down with the crowd, John throwing his hands up victoriously, knowing their football team had just completed a perfect spring season. God, John couldn't remember the last time he felt this much like himself.

 

Once the game was deemed over, and the students in the section began clearing out, John stood carefully, and with Mike's help, descended the bleachers. He'd made it down to the terrain and walked beside his friend, holding his belly protectively, wary of the close proximity to so many others. "God, that was fantastic!" He exclaimed, still grinning. "The beginning was bleak, but Devlin and Price really brought it back."

 

Mike nodded in agreement, pushing his glasses up on his nose, and he laughed. "Bloody brilliant game, honestly." He then nudged John lightly. "Told you, you just needed to get out of the room and do something you like."

 

John sighed, but still smiled, and he looked down to his burgeoning stomach, distorting the numbers on the large jersey. "Yeah. Yeah, it really was what I needed. I think I should start settling down, though. Little bugger's going to be here in five weeks. Too much excitement might make him too early."

 

Once they broke away from the rest of the crowd, Mike put a hand on John's shoulder, smiling warmly. "You're going to be a good dad, mate. Really. He's lucky to have you."

 

John smiled bashfully. "Thanks, Mike. Means a lot." He began walking the other way, toward the dormitory where he and Bill lived, and gave Mike a wave. "See you tomorrow, yeah?"

 

John was slow, he knew. He had to be, with this baby on his front, and he didn't quite mind a stroll by himself. He saw people ahead of him, so surely he was fine.

 

He wasn't.

 

John frowned when suddenly a group of three Alphas paraded in front of him, and then stopped to face him. God, he didn't like this. He licked his lips nervously and stopped. "Uh…can I help you?"

 

Sally Donovan, who he knew was already a pack Alpha, gave a smirk and stepped forward, hands on her hips. "No. But we can help _you_." She said provocatively. "Heard you and your Alpha aren't seeing each other anymore--"

 

"He wasn't _my_ Alpha," John quickly shot, a pang shooting through his chest.

 

"Either way," she continued, "you've got a little sprog in your belly, and no one to look after it. You can't honestly think you're going to be fine on your own, do you? We can help you, Watson. John, is it? You can have an Alpha to take care of you, and your little bastard."

 

John's brow furrowed. He wanted to lash out, but he managed to keep calm. "I don't _want_ your help, Donovan. I don't need it. Now if you'll excuse me, I need to get back to my-- Mmff!"

 

Before he knew it, the other two male Alphas had picked him up under the arms, clapped their hands over his mouth, and dragged him into a dark alleyway. No one saw, or heard him yelling.

 

"I didn't want to have to do this," Sally said, "but you're going to need to learn your place. I need to be a bit rough with you, don't I? Her curls bounced as she stepped toward him. "I can keep you safe. I can make you feel good, John. Isn't that what every pretty little Omega needs?"

 

He was pinned to the wall. His mouth was clasped shut, and no matter how much he writhed, he wasn't getting away. Tears pricked at John's eyes as he shut them tight, and the baby twisted and kicked in distress. He wasn't getting out of this. Sherlock wasn't here to get him out of this.

 

* * *

 

 

John sobbed as he walked, shivering. He was cold from the inside out. He held onto the underside of his belly desperately, only crying more because the baby wouldn't calm down. He _hurt_. He hurt everywhere. His body was sore, and his chest ached, and he merely wanted to collapse onto the sidewalk and die. She had rutted against him. Roughly. He cried and tried to push her away, god, did he try to get away.

 

"I can make you feel like this always."

 

"I'll keep you safe."

 

"You're so pretty when you're crying."

 

"Feels good, doesn't it, Johnny?"

 

It didn't. It hurt, and he felt disgusting, and he wanted to die.

 

Sally had rubbed up against him until, against his will, he'd come in his pants. It still hadn't dried.

 

He needed Sherlock. He needed someone to make him feel safe again.

 

John winced, climbing onto the high step of the door of 221B, and with a shaky hand, he pressed the door bell. He leaned against the doorframe and waited, crying silently. John pressed his hands to his belly, and shushed weakly, trying to get his distressed baby to calm. God, how could he have allowed this to happen?

 

After a minute of waiting, he rang the bell again, and banged the door knocker three times. Maybe Sherlock didn't want to see him; he understood if that was the case. John stepped down and wiped his nose on his sleeve, and rubbed soothing circles into his stomach, taking deep breaths. He'd just been molested, and the one person he used to trust didn't want to see him.

 

John blinked and shuffled around when he heard the door open, red-rimmed eyes glimmering in the light from inside.

 

"Now who on earth would be knocking at this godawful time of night?" Mrs Hudson murmured as she shuffled to the doorway, frowning slightly as she pulled the door open. One of Sherlock's bloody clients, probably, who like him had no sense of propriety or the proper time of day to knock on the door of someone's flat. 

 

"Oh!" she exclaimed softly. "John, it's you. Oh, you look a sight, luv, come inside - have you been crying? Are you here to see Sherlock? Come in, sit down, John, you look like you're about to collapse." She ushered the heavily pregnant Omega inside, closing the door quietly behind them as the boy crossed the threshold.

 

"I... Mrs Hudson," John muttered, but allowed himself to be taken inside. He needed the warmth. He needed the familiarity.

 

John very nearly shuddered when he recognised that lovely, musky scent from upstairs.

 

"I'm... I'm sorry if I woke you," John sniffled and wiped his eyes, trying to put on a mask, trying to look okay. "I know it's late. I didn't mean to disturb you, ma'am, really... I can just... leave, if Sherlock's not in."

 

"I truly don't know where the daft man is," Mrs Hudson admitted. "I never heard him go out, but then again, my soothers -" she patted John on the back and smiled sorrowfully. "He may be upstairs, John, I really don't know. Why don't you come in for a cuppa and I'll ring him, and we'll see if he's in?"

 

"I-- No, I really couldn't, but thank--" John stopped and swallowed when he noticed the remorseful look on the landlady's face. He blinked and swallowed thickly, nodding. He needed something. He needed another human being to talk to. Whether it was Sherlock, or Mrs Hudson. "Please. Please, yes, thank you."

 

Mrs Hudson smiled and led John into her sitting room, settling him in on the cushy couch and pushing a tin of biscuits into the distressed boy's hands. "It's lovely to see you, John, really, it's been so long since you moved out! You and Sherlock trying to make up, then, is that why you came by?" She looked over at John's pained expression and reddened eyes and several pieces belatedly clicked into place. "Or…John, are you quite alright, dear? Did something happen?"

 

John held the biscuits in his hand, but he really didn't want them. He felt nauseous already, the baby still doing those flips and kicks, though not as often. He stared at the tin, hearing Mrs Hudson speak as if through a tunnel, and looked up after a while. He opened his mouth to speak, but no words were ejaculated, so he closed it again and swallowed. "Sherlock..." He muttered. "I haven't... I haven't seen him since..." _Since I screamed at him and didn't let him explain himself_ , John thought. He closed his eyes. "We're not... making up, no. I don't think we will." He looked away in shame. "I'm... not even sure why I came. I needed--" _protection_ "-- I don't know."

 

Mrs Hudson frowned and left the kettle to boil, walking back over to perch lightly next to John. "I don't know what's happened, John - I'm sure Sherlock could tell, if he were here - but I do know something's gone wrong. If you tell me, I can try my best to help." She put a hand on John's, her thin fingers squeezing tight reassuringly.

 

John gave a small, sad smile to the floor. God, he really didn't want to burden this woman with his problems. He shook his head. "I... I can't--" his voice cracked and his eyes squeezed shut, and he felt a tear spill over, cascading down his cheek. That was the turning point. "I... Someone..." He cupped his belly protectively and stiffened. "They... They _touched_ me..." John opened his eyes and looked to Mrs Hudson, shaking his head. "Look, ma'am, I... I don't want to put all this on you, I'm just a helpless Omega who's gotten himself into a big bloody awful mess... A-all this is... my fault..." John put a hand over his eyes and turned away, trying very hard to steel himself.

 

"Oh, John, love…" Mrs Hudson scooted closer and wrapped her arms around the Omega, holding his shuddering body close in as tight an embrace as she could manage. "Enough of all this 'ma'am' nonsense, to begin, and secondly, whatever happened, it's not your fault. Sounds to me like you need a nice hot shower and a cuppa - oh!" she tittered, looking up at the wailing kettle. "Not in that order, apparently. Let me fix your tea, and then you can tell Mrs H all about it. We'll get you cleaned up and righted in two shakes."

 

John sat back into the couch and tilted his head toward the ceiling, taking long, deep breaths to calm himself, rubbing circles into his full stomach. He sat up straight again and wiped his eyes on his wrist. He needed to be strong. He always needed to be strong. John smiled gratefully when he was handed his cup of tea, and he took a tentative sip. "Thank you. Thank you so much, really. I just. Needed to be with someone," he said quietly.

 

"It's not a bother, love. Now, you drink up and I'll see if I can find some clothes that'll fit you. Not to be crass, but you reek, luv." Mrs Hudson laughed and patted John's belly and tottered off into the bedroom. 

 

Clucking lightly as she rifled through some old clothes of Mr Hudson's, the elderly woman mentally cursed Sherlock for leaving his Omega all alone with a baby in his belly, off to fend for himself. Look where it had both of them! Sherlock sulking and abusing his violin at all hours of the day, and poor John apparently assaulted by a group of rowdy Alphas. She frowned and pulled an overlarge shirt out of the closet, sizing it up and deciding that it would probably cover the boy's belly. Good thing her late husband was a larger man, she mused, and pulled a pair of sleep trousers and pants out of the drawer. 

 

As she returned to the sitting room, she paused quietly in the door, looking at the forlorn Omega sat on her sofa. Something had to be done, she decided. "Here, love. I don't know if they'll fit, but they're better than the clothes you're wearing. Take all the time you need, I'll just dash up and see if Sherlock's in. Back in a tick!" she called, and shuffled out into the hallway, closing the door lightly behind her.

 

John held the clothes in his hands and sighed, shifting them around. He pushed himself up with a grunt and waddled into the bathroom, closing the door behind him. 

 

He stared at himself in the mirror. The boy staring back at him was much different from the one he'd seen at the beginning of the school year. He chuckled bitterly, nearly on the verge of tears, but looked away from himself, and instead changed out of his clothes.

 

He hobbled back out, his gross clothes draped over his arm, and he sank into the couch again. The sleeves on the shirt were far too long, but it covered his stomach, so that was enough. The trousers had to be curled under several times beneath his belly, and the legs still dragged the ground, but these clothes would be okay for now.

 

John pulled the huge shirt up over his belly and looked at it, seeing the little shifts of movement. Thank God, he'd settled now. He was just glad that the little boy inside was all right. He rubbed his hands over the skin, and gazed at is sadly, lovingly. "It's okay now. I've got you. I'll protect you. We don't need anyone else, love. Your papa's got you," he whispered gently.

 

Mrs Hudson pounded angrily on the door, wary of the fact that the boy in her flat below might hear the noise. "Sherlock Holmes, come out right now! Or I'll double your rent for next month, I swear on all that is holy-" 

 

The door swung open, revealing an angry disheveled madman glaring at her intensely. "What, Mrs Hudson, is so vastly important that it requires my presence at two in the morning?" 

 

"Your John is down in my flat, damn near shaking from trauma-" 

 

Sherlock's eyes went wide. "What? I knew he was here, but what's wrong? What's happened?" 

 

"Perhaps if you'd come down to let him in, you'd know, you utter prat," she hissed, and then relented when panic spread across Sherlock's face. "He says someone touched him. I don't know where, or how, but he's awfully shaken, Sherlock. He needs you." 

 

Sherlock closed his eyes and was silent for a moment. "He doesn't need me, Mrs Hudson. He told me so himself. G…goodnight. Please tell John I wasn't in." Against his landlady's protests, the door to his flat closed and the lock clicked shut. 

 

"Oh, boys, what have you done?" 

 

* * *

 

 

Opening the door to her own flat, Mrs Hudson smiled at the sight that greeted her - John, in clothes far too big for him, rubbing his swollen belly, calming the baby within. "Feel any better, love?" she asked quietly.

 

John blushed and quickly pulled the shirt down over his belly, and gave a small nod. "I... Yeah, a little. Thank you for the clothes. I'll take a shower when I get back, and I'll wash these and return them to you tomorrow." He finished his cup of tea and set it down, the warm liquid sitting welcome in his stomach. "Sherlock doesn't want to see me, then," John said flatly, looking to the floor.

 

"Oh, he wasn't in, dearie." Mrs Hudson said gently, taking the boy's cup and setting it on the coffee table. "He must've gone out earlier, and I didn't hear him. No matter. Now, you're staying the night?" She asked, but it was more a statement. "I'll set you up in the guest room. No use in putting your back out kipping on the sofa."

 

John smiled tentatively. "Thank you, Mrs Hudson, but I wasn't intending on kipping anywhere…I have a roommate--" He broke off, licking his lips and looking away ashamedly. They'd never discussed how old John actually was with Mrs Hudson. And he _really_ hoped she wouldn't make the connection that Sherlock was his bloody teacher. "I won't bother you. Really. I'll be fine to leave. I feel better."

 

"Nonsense. You need a good nights' sleep and a good breakfast in the morning. It's not a bother at all. Stay, please." _I need time to have words with Sherlock._

 

John licked his lips and gave a small sigh. "You can be very persuasive, Mrs Hudson," he said with a small smile. "Thank you. Very much." He took the woman's hand and squeezed it. The boy hesitated and worried his lip. "Can I…can I tell you something?"

 

"Of course, John." The woman shifted on the sofa, looking intently at the Omega.

 

John licked his lips and glanced down to his belly briefly. "I'm scared," he said simply, matter-of-factly. "I'm not sure what I'm going to do. Once the baby's here. I mean. I do have a place to go, I think. I found a small place I'll be able to afford. But..." He stroked a hand over his abdomen. "I'm nervous. About being a parent. Am I…am I doing the right thing? Is love alone going to be enough, to make... to make my son happy?"

 

"Oh, John. Yes." Mrs Hudson said firmly, squeezing the Omega's hand. "You can do it. You _will_ do it. You've got friends to rely on, you'll have plenty of help raising that little boy. And he'll be happy." _And if Sherlock isn't part of that help, I'll have his head on a pike._

 

John chuckled a little, inwardly bitter, and looked down to his belly. "Sometimes I feel like I've got the weight of the whole world on my shoulders. It's hard. But. I suppose I do that to myself, don't I?" He said with a crooked, rueful smile. "It's... I don't like asking for help. I like to think I'm the strongest man on the planet. But I'm not, am I? You're right. I will do it. With help." John smiled softly and looked at Mrs Hudson for a moment, before wrapping his arms around her, gently squeezing. "Thanks, Mrs Hudson. I really needed that talking to."

 

"You're welcome, John dear." She returned his hug enthusiastically, and chuckled when she felt the baby send a swift kick against her own stomach. "You've got a strong little one there, haven't you?" she smiled and laid a hand on John's belly. "Have you thought about names for your little boy? He'll be here before you know it!"

 

"God, I know," John sighed, giving his belly a pat. "Just a few weeks left. He's strong, yeah. A big boy, too. He's already starting to drop, too." John sighed and pressed his fingers to the bottom of his belly. "Just hoping he'll make it another three weeks at least. After final exams." He licked his lips and quickly changed the path of the conversation. "Not quite sure yet. Something... smart. Unique. But not too odd, of course. Guess I need to pick something, huh?"

 

"You've got a bit of time yet. You don't _need_ to have a name until the big day." Mrs Hudson smiled. "You'll pick a lovely name; I'm sure. Now go on, it's time we got you to bed. You need your rest." She patted him on he shoulder and smiled, rising to her feet and offering a hand.

 

"I'm fine, I've got it," John insisted, heaving his stomach forward and pushing up off the couch. He gave Mrs Hudson a smile and that only grew when she put her hand on his sore back.

 

He missed those sorts of touches from the father of the baby residing in his belly. He missed Sherlock's laugh, his awe at everything the baby did. John missed Sherlock, and that irritated him horribly. Sherlock is the one who should be sorry. Sherlock was the one who messed up, who couldn't communicate with John. John didn't need that.

 

He was led into a small, neat bedroom, and bid Mrs Hudson good night. He set his dirty clothes on the floor, and sighed before lowering himself to sit on the edge of the bed.

 

John stroked his belly, lying down, and pulling the covers up over himself, curling into his side. A small whimper escaped his mouth, unbidden, as he remembered the all too recognisable coat and scarf hanging on the banister just outside Mrs Hudson's flat.

 

_Sherlock._


	15. Chapter 15

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger warning: Drug use and slightly unconventional and vaguely confusing writing.

Sherlock could smell his distress. 

 

It was a sharp tang, a deep red streak, an unpleasant prickle against the boundaries of his grey matter. It wormed its way inside his ears, a high-pitched whine that echoed and multiplied to a roar. 

 

It was his thoughts, it was his madness, it was his brain's inability to process the situation. It was his loathing, his longing, his need, the missing part of him. It was John, it was their baby, it was the loss of skin and the loss of smell and the loss of color until everything went white and his brain roared inside his skull. 

 

It was fighting his way to the wooden box and fumbling it open, it was inhaling the scent and the rush of his blood in his veins as associative behavior took over and for a moment it was a balm, and then the need came back overwhelmingly and he fell to his knees on the floor, clutching the needle so hard he was afraid he might shatter the glass. 

 

It was mixing the solution with shaking hands, it was disgust with himself, it was the smell of rubbing alcohol and the cool wash of air over the damp skin, it was the prick of pain and the instant relief as the needle hit home, it was the cool thrumming of blood in his veins as he pressed the plunger and all sensation was gone. 

 

It was waking up hours later in a daze, clothes rumpled on the floor and head swimming, the prickling and whining and blurred vision coming back already. 

 

It was stumbling into the shower and shaking as his muscles, weak and overexerted, barely held him up, it was pulling on clean clothes and tossing the old in the hamper and wishing that he could smell John on the fabric. It was managing to hail a cab and getting to campus at a reasonable time, pulling himself together and strolling into class just on time, teaching the necessary material to the best of his ability and acting as though that seat, fourth row down, middle section towards the left of the classroom, was a black hole. 

 

It was closing his briefcase with trembling fingers and leaving at the end of the day, head already clouded and body already shaking with the need to repeat everything. 

 

Which is why it was the worst thing, to have Mrs Hudson banging on his door when he was high as a kite and telling him that John-

 

It was closing the door and collapsing on the couch, sobs wracking his thin body, and doubling up on his dosage the next night.

 

* * *

 

 

Saturdays. Merciful, blessed weekends. No alarms to break Sherlock out of his haze, just sunlight streaming through thinly curtained windows and teasing him gently awake. 

 

Thoughts swirled in Sherlock's lethargic brain, not roaring just yet - a quick spiral just slightly more unpleasant than being vastly overwhelmed. He could manage. But one thought, colored red, laughing and smelling of wool, floated above the rest, and it took Sherlock's brain entirely too long to pull it down. 

 

Sherlock read it, processed it, and read it again. 

 

John. 

 

John. Oh god, John was downstairs, his ma- his Omeg- John was downstairs, Mrs Hudson had told him someone touched him, that was _unacceptable_ was John _hurt_ , what was that noise-

 

John had left. 

 

Sherlock sat on the sofa for a moment, stunned, and raced to the window. John was standing outside, wearing clothes three sizes too big and waving down a cab. "Jo-" Sherlock bit his lip and clapped a hand over his mouth simultaneously, and squeezed his eyes shut. "John," he whispered, and watched as a black vehicle pulled up and John, belly obvious and round, climbed into the back. 

 

The slam of the door corresponded with an insistent and particularly angry-sounding knock on the door, and Sherlock waited until the cab turned off Baker street before he let the curtains fall shut and went to answer to his landlady. 

 

"Sherlock Holmes, you are an utter bastard and-" 

 

"How lovely to see you, Mrs Hudson, won't you come in for a cup of tea?" Sherlock put a hand on his landlady's shoulder and led the protesting woman into the flat, closing the door behind him and leaving her stand in the sitting room as he made his way to the kitchen. 

 

"Don't you patronize me, Sherlock, that was your young man and he needed you and you left him go!" 

 

Sherlock sighed and pushed the button on the kettle. "Yes, I let him go, and no, he does not need me. Jo- He made that more than adequately obvious when he left. I've truthfully no idea why he came here last night. He had no reason to seek me out, he's living on his own now." 

 

"That doesn't matter one bit, Sherlock, you gave the boy a baby and whether he says he needs you or not, he _needs_ you! You're going to apologise for whatever it is you did, and even if you two don't shack up again you are very well going to be a part of that child's life!" Mrs Hudson huffed and put her hands on her hips. "You owe him that, at least." 

 

Sherlock was silent as he dropped bags into the teapot, letting the leaves soak and brew. "He made it very clear that I don't owe him anything. He said very specifically that he didn't want me to be a part of the baby's life." The fight had gone out of his voice; it was just a statement, now. 

 

"Sherlock, oh, Sherlock, when will you ever learn?" his landlady chided, and walked over until she was standing beside the stubborn detective. "People don't always say what they mean. He didn't come here last night to have a kip in my spare room, that's for certain. He came here for _you_." 

 

Sherlock turned to look at his landlady, his eyes wet. "I don't understand." 

 

"He wants you, Sherlock. He wants to be with you, and I know you want to be with him, too. I hate to watch you two struggle with this, so I'll spell it out. Call him. Meet up for lunch, or dinner, or to go for a walk in the park. You two both need to talk, because if there's two things I know, it's men and relationships, and you're both bloody daft. He loves you, Sherlock. And you love him," Mrs Hudson said firmly, and put a hand on Sherlock's arm. 

 

"I did," Sherlock whispered, blinking and biting his lower lip. "I did. Do you- really, does he…?"

 

"Call him," Mrs Hudson replied softly. "You'll see. Trust me." Sherlock nodded and let his landlady pull him into a hug. If the woman felt her blouse dampen where Sherlock's cheek rested on her shoulder, neither of them said anything.


	16. Chapter 16

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> John and Sherlock finally talk and you guys are going to hate us so bad.

**Press call, Sherlock.**

 

**Sherlock. Press call.**

 

**For god's sake, you've had his contact pulled up for seven minutes and twenty-three seconds and you've already had a piss, you have no reason not to call him.**

 

_But I'm scared._

 

**It's not logical to be scared.**

 

 _Doesn't matter. I_ _don't want to._

 

**Yes, you do.**

 

_…Yes, I do._

 

**Press call, Sherlock. It'll be fine.**

 

Sherlock pressed call. 

 

The phone rang for six point seven seconds before he heard John pick up and say a slightly out of breath 'hello?' Hadn't checked the caller ID, then. 

 

Sherlock took a deep if not slightly shaky breath and spoke. 

 

"John."

 

John's world stopped when he heard that baritone voice say his name. He pulled the phone away and looked at the caller ID: Sherlock. Why was Sherlock calling him?

 

John blew out a breath and sat down in the nearest chair; he was on break at the coffee shop, and he'd just answered when his phone rang, not thinking.

 

After a moment of silence, John swallowed and spoke softly. "What do you want, Sherlock?"

 

"To talk," Sherlock said simply, cautiously. "If you're amicable."

 

John licked his lips and shifted in the high top chair, resting a hand over his burgeoning belly. "Look, Sherlock, I'm working--" he sighed and carded a hand through his hair. "I've got a few minutes, what... What is it you're wanting to talk about?"

 

"Not right now," Sherlock said quickly. "You're work- working? You shouldn't be-" he cut himself off and shook his head. "Sorry. Are you free tomorrow, for dinner? Or lunch?"

 

John scrubbed a hand down his face, a lump of some emotion forming in his throat. "I don't... think that's a very good idea, Sherlock. Besides, I need to study, remember? Exiting exams are next week."

 

"It won't take long, John, I just think - we need to talk. I need to - I need to apologise to you, and explain. In person. And-" Sherlock took a deep breath. "Mrs Hudson said you came by a few days ago, and said something had happened. And I would like…I would like it if you told me what happened. I'm…" _worried sick about you. Concerned. Sorry._ "Please."

 

John sighed heavily and gave his belly a gentle rub. "Look, it happened. I don't... I'd rather not bring it up again, I'm better now, and that's all that matters." He licked his lips and shook his head. "I'm... free tomorrow. I…where and when?"

 

Sherlock clapped a hand over his mouth and let out a shaky breath, closing his eyes. Drawing in another lungful of air, he cleared his throat. "We can…the same place as before, if that works for you. And…" Dinner was almost too intimate, lunch too casual - "Shall we say, six?"

 

"Six. Yeah, all right. I'll... be there. Yeah. Is..." John cleared his throat. "Anything else?"

 

Sherlock shook his head and then realised that John couldn't hear the motion over the phone. He was silent, for a long, long moment, until he heard John say his name. "No," he said, and John didn't respond. He held his mobile up to his ear, pressed tight and hot against his skin, and assumed from the silence that John had hung up. "I miss you," he murmured, pulled the phone away from his face, and clicked to end the call. 

 

Throwing his mobile down against the sofa and feeling it bounce, Sherlock drove his face into the cushions and let out a shuddering breath. God, he might have another chance. John was going to meet him for dinner. He'd have a chance to explain. Oh, god, he'd fucked up. He hoped desperately that he could fix this.

 

* * *

 

 Sherlock was sat in the restaurant, drumming his fingers on his thigh anxiously as he waited for John to arrive. He'd been there for nearly half an hour, but John wasn't late - Sherlock's mobile was just now reading quarter to six. _He'll be here any minute,_ Sherlock's brain whispered reassuringly. _He'll be here._

 

He'd tried to plan it all out, to think about what to say and what John would respond with, but in trying the exercise Sherlock realised how long it had been since he spoke, really spoke, with John, and his mind-John simply responded with yeses and nos and then started shouting about how he was leaving, how he didn't need Sherlock's help, and if that wasn't the least helpful thing that his mind-John could do, then Sherlock didn't know what was. After the third failed attempt, he finally stopped trying, and decided that, regardless of outcome, he was going to have to face John by himself, without knowing how it might go. 

 

The thought was terrifying. 

 

So was looking up to see John settle in the chair opposite him, looking tired, swollen, and wary. Sherlock's greeting stuck in his throat and he simply swallowed, nodding, and moved his glance from John's face to his belly to the table. "John," he finally managed. "You made it."

 

John grunted as he shifted in the chair, having to splay his legs wide to make room for his heavy belly. He glanced up at Sherlock and gave a small, half-hearted smile. "Sorry I'm late. Had to clean the table tops at work, and took a bit to get a cab to stop for me," he explained softly. He sighed and slipped his hands beneath the curve of his belly, rubbing it and exhaling a breath through his mouth. 

 

"Would've texted you, but... couldn't afford the phone bill this month." He regretted relaying that information immediately, and then stood up straight, looking confident. He didn't want Sherlock to know he was only just getting by.  "I-- I just moved into a flat. It's small, but. It'll be enough to accommodate for the baby and I. I've bought a crib and clothes and... all of the things he's going to need, really." John licked his lips and sighed. "I'm fine, Sherlock, I'm doing... just fine. Now, what is all this about?"

 

Some small part of Sherlock fractured into little pieces as he listened to John's soft excuses about his lateness. He wanted to gather the boy into his arms, pretend like the past six weeks hadn't happened, that he hadn't done the wrong thing and made John leave. 

 

"I…" he tried to start, and had to stop, think. "You came by the flat last week." John nodded, and Sherlock swallowed, nodded back, and started again. "My landlady - Mrs Hudson - she said you, you erm, didn't come for…her. That I should call you, and have dinner. Catch up, and try to…fix…things." He looked up, swallowed, and sighed. "So I…I'm trying to say, I'm sorry. For what I did. And. Said. I didn't mean it the way it came out."

 

John sighed and glanced down at the table. He fingered at the corner and licked his lips, thinking. "Look, I know you probably didn't mean to offend me. You were doing the smart thing." He looked up to meet Sherlock's eyes. "But let's face it. We can't hide it forever, this baby, and being so close together... Sherlock, it's a risk. It's better this way, for me to just... do this on my own. I don't want to get you in trouble, and that means that I can't get what I _really_ need. I need…god, I need a mate who can look after me whenever I need. And not..." He groaned exasperatedly and scrubbed a hand over his face. "It's easier this way."

 

"I'm quitting my job," Sherlock murmured. "After this semester's over. I'm done." At the shocked look on John's face, he held his hands up, silently imploring John to let him explain. "It's not just…not _only_ because of you. And the baby. But partially. The job has lost its lustre. It used to be interesting, to teach. But…no more. It's just droll, just busy work. And…something more important has happened." He swallowed, looked up at John, and continued. "I'll understand if you don't want me to be part of your life. Or our…the baby's. But I made my choice."

 

John stared at Sherlock for a few long beats before blinking and giving a nod. "I... I'm a little surprised. What... Sherlock, what are you going to _do_ if not teach? I mean…that's something to think about, to consider. You can't just stop working."

 

His breath hitched and his brow furrowed, pressing a hand to his belly, and rubbing it, taking a few long breaths. When Sherlock's eyes widened in worry, John shook his head. "Don't, I'm fine, just... practise contraction. Keep talking."

 

"You're sure it's practise?" Sherlock asked worriedly, but John nodded and motioned for him to continue. "Erm, yes. The job. I won't get paid retirement, obviously, but I will get a pension of sorts for early retirement. Tenure, and all that. And I can start taking cases with the Yard, like I did before. Please rest assured when I tell you that money isn't an issue, John. I wouldn't have made such a decision lightly." He smiled tentatively. "I took all factors into consideration. Measurable factors, anyway." The one immeasurable factor, the one he waited on now, was John's response. His decision.

 

John exhaled and put his hands on the table, fiddling with his fingers as Sherlock looked to him expectantly. He worried his lip and glanced off to the side. Luckily they were interrupted by the waiter taking their drink orders, so he had another moment to process the professor's words. "Okay, so what you're saying is, no matter what happens, you're giving up your teaching position, and you're going to solve homicides for a living, and you still want me to live with you and have you involved in my baby's life." John chuckled bitterly and shook his head. "I don't _trust_ you, Sherlock. I don't. You've given me no reason to trust you, all you've done is hurt me or let me down. I don't want my son to have a father that's going to make false promises and be emotionally distant whenever he damn well chooses to be. That isn't healthy."

 

"I…" Sherlock opened and closed his mouth several times. Out of all possible responses, this was not one he'd thought through. He was quiet for a long moment, staring at John's jumper and then up at his face, into his eyes. 

 

"I'm trying," he finally whispered, nearly pleading. "I'm trying, so hard. Working at this harder than I've ever had to try, or wanted to try, before. This is _important_ to me. You. Are important to me. And the baby, too." He laid both his hands on the table, palms down, honest but firm. "I'm sorry I've betrayed your trust, John. But I'm trying to make it right."

 

John exhaled thickly and laced his hands overtop of his large, firm belly, his face softening when he felt the soft rolls of feet trailing up to reach his palms. He closed his eyes a moment. "I want to trust you. But I really can't afford to take any more risks when it comes to you. You've had eight and a half months to fix this, and it's caused me more bad than good. All this time to make it up. You tried. You tried, and it was good for a while, but Sherlock, I can't stand another minute of this. It's not fair to me or my baby, playing these games. You either want me entirely, or not at all. You either love me or don't. And I don't think you know which ones are true to you. I've made my decision. And I... just won't do it anymore."

 

No. 

 

No, this was wrong, this was all wrong, this was not the way it was supposed to go, John was supposed to tell him that trying was good enough, that he was getting better, that he believed him and could trust him again, that it was okay and that they would be okay. Not…not this, not the…No. No, no, no…

 

Catching himself before he began to breathe too heavily in frustration and panic, Sherlock slid his hands back off the table, lifted them, and set his head heavily into his open palms. "I, I, I see. I'm, I'm sorry, John, that I." He ran both hands through his hair, fingers catching in snarls and making pain spike through his scalp. "I'm sorry, that I ruined - that I messed it, that I made you." He was panicking now, one hand still in his hair and the other gesturing at John, at his belly, at their baby. "I don't regret…" He accidentally knocked his water glass over and jumped to his feet, watching a dark wetness spread across his trousers and chill his skin as it seeped through. "Fuck. I. I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm. So sorry. This, no. I. No." He grabbed his coat, held it awkwardly, and took a step back. "John," he whispered, almost tortured, the image in his mind of a happy family, _their_ happily family, being torn to shreds in front of his eyes. This was all wrong, this was all _wrong_

 

He realised he was saying all of this out loud and stopped, eyes wide and staring at John, who was looking back with something akin to horror. Without another word, Sherlock turned and dashed out of the restaurant, running until he was out of breath, lungs screaming, and utterly lost. 

 

No, it was wrong. It was all wrong.

 

John's eyes went permanently wide and unblinking as he looked straight ahead of himself, and didn't dare watch Sherlock dash out the door.

 

What... Sherlock was genuinely hurt. He was troubled and hurt and _confused_. John had never witnessed something quite so raw in all of his life, and part of him hoped he never had to again. Seeing Sherlock Holmes, the collected, emotionless man break down like that, it. No. It was definitely wrong.

 

He breathed heavily, suddenly feeling dizzy, before a lurch in his stomach had him sprinting to the loo. He burst through the door and dropped to his knees heavily before a toilet, and found everything he didn't eat emptied into the bowl. He retched violently and sobbed, gripping his jumper tight, all of his limbs trembling with weakness and overexertion.

 

John cried silently, flushing the toilet, and collapsed to lean against the stall wall. He whimpered, rubbing his belly, the baby wriggling in distress, and he shut his eyes tight, shutting out the rest of the world.

 

It was all wrong. It was his fault. Sherlock wanted to make things better, and John had told him he had no faith in him.

 

And that was what made him sick. He couldn't believe Sherlock Holmes could ever be what he wanted; even when he already was.


	17. Chapter 17

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alright, guys, here's what you've been waiting for.   
> Last chapter up on Thursday.   
> Thanks for taking this ride with us.   
> -Anna

For the fourth time in an hour, Sherlock found himself staring at the bullet-riddled wall of his flat instead of writing questions for his final exam. Each new line of query brought some memory of John to the forefront of his mind - a lesson he'd gone over with the boy at some point or another during their…relationship. 

 

Sherlock refocussed, got halfway through another question, and then finally closed the lid of the laptop and settled his head in his hands. 

 

This was the final exam. After this test was over, the semester would finish. John would take off school, not that it would matter to Sherlock - he was quitting. Even if (when) John came back, he wouldn't be there to see him. And of course, John had made it abundantly clear that Sherlock wouldn't see him anywhere else, either. 

 

This was it. The end of a chapter that had, at points, looked promising. One that now was bleak and had ended all too abruptly. 

 

The brown box tucked so neatly into the corner called Sherlock's name softly. _Just one last time, Sherlock? Get you through to the end? I can help you with your exam. You'll forget about whatshisface for awhile. You'll forget about everything for awhile. Come on, just once more? You want me, Sherlock, I know you do..._

 

"No!" he roared, standing so quickly that his laptop slid to the floor with a loud thump. "I don't want you! I don't, I don't, you're not what I - what I want. Not. Not. No." 

 

The box sat so innocently in the corner, stoic, solid, unmoved. Sherlock stood in the centre of the living room, flushed, teary, vibrating. 

 

But yet...

 

He didn't know what else to do, so he did what he knew. He gave into the wooden box, just one last time. One last time. Just to get him through, just once more. Once more, to forget...

 

* * *

 

 

John shot his head up with a start as the alarm on his mobile sounded, the beeping rousing him from sleep. Apparently, he had fallen asleep at his desk, slouching with his head in his hands. 

 

This was it. The last exam, and the term was over. John would be starting a new. A new life would be beginning very soon, quite literally. 

 

God, he was relieved, though. With his due date just a week away, he couldn't afford to be at school for much longer.

 

John heaved himself up from his chair, not even bothering to change clothes or groom himself properly. He threw on a hoodie and slipped into his trainers, before slinging his bag over his shoulder.

 

John stopped to stare at himself in the mirror and frowned. The boy looking back wasn't the same boy as the optimistic, ready to please med student that had begun his second year of uni. This boy was weary, and not only because of the low, child-heavy belly on his front. He was damaged, but still functional. After this chemistry exam, he could rest. At least until the baby made it into the world.

 

John gave a hiss and pressed a hand to his lower back, feeling a dull ache forming at the base of his spine. It'd been doing that. The weight of his bag probably wasn't helping. He let the pain pass, and pressed on.

 

The boy waddled to the door and closed it behind him. This chapter of his life was closing. Now, he hoped his hard work and heartache wouldn't be all for naught.

 

* * *

 

 

Students filed in one by one. Sherlock could tell which had studied, which hadn't, and which were bothered by their lack of studying. He could tell which had stayed up all night and which ones had fallen asleep trying to do so. 

 

John was one of the last in the room, moving slowly, achily. Heavily. The baby was low in his belly, impeding his movement. He was due just next week, Sherlock knew. Their - his baby boy would be born in a week's time. John looked tired, exhausted but determined. He settled slowly into his seat and rubbed his stomach absently as he looked for a pencil in his rucksack. Sherlock realised he was staring and looked away. It was none of his business anymore. 

 

As the last student hurried into the room, Sherlock rose and a hush spread across the chattering students. Rather than an elaborate congratulations for finishing the class as he usually did, Sherlock muttered 'this is it, then' and began handing out exams. 

 

Five different versions, handed out in order and with care not to allow any one student to see a copy identical to their own. The stack dwindled as he approached John's row, and he couldn't stop his hand from shaking as he handed the boy his exam. It took all of Sherlock's remaining self control not to drop the quivering paper in the time it took John to grasp it and pull it down onto his desk. 

 

Sherlock took a deep breath, and moved on.

 

* * *

 

 

John exhaled deeply and gave his stomach a brief stroke before diving head first into his exam. He had this, he knew. He'd studied relentlessly the night before, and knew he could work out any of the equations effortlessly. He pulled out his calculator and began punching in the numbers, smiling at his own calculations.

 

He didn't even bother to look up to his professor for thanks. There was no sense in it. Professor Holmes knew that he was a fantastic teacher, and it would show in the exams he graded, especially John's.

 

Midway through comprehending a bonding equation, John's brow furrowed as he felt his back begin to throb again, and he took a deep breath before disregarding it and moving on.

 

They became more frequent, and his head began to pound, making it harder to think. The questions took longer, and John had to stop on occasion and rub his back, and eventually also his belly, when the ache started to radiate out.

 

He was about two-thirds finished with his exam when the halfway mark hit, an hour and a half in, and an unconfident baritone voice announced a ten minute intermission. John could have cried from relief; he needed to stand.

 

John groaned as he stood, back arching to support his belly, before climbing the stairs and heading out of the classroom. He really needed the loo.

 

He clambered into a stall and pushed his track suit bottoms and pants down before dropping onto the toilet. He gripped the tissue paper dispenser as his back cramped once more, and he took long, deep breaths. This wasn't normal. Just beginning to entertain the idea of these pains being contractions, of being in _labour_ , John gasped, something bursting inside of him.

 

"God, no," John hissed, panting and rubbing his belly. "No. No no no, not now, stop…please." He pled with the baby inside of him, as if he would listen, before closing his eyes and fighting tears. Of course the baby would choose now, during one of the most quintessential examinations of his life, the baby would decide to come.

 

John heaved himself up and fixed his clothes after wiping himself clean, and he took several deep breaths. God, he could even feel that the baby was lower. "Just hold on for a while longer, _please_ ," he begged.

 

He was going to continue with his exam. He needed to. He could finish, and he could get a cab to the hospital. He had enough time. He had to have enough time.

 

John dropped into his seat, gritting his teeth, and had an intense, concentrated look on his face, waiting for the exam to begin again. He tuned out all other factors around him, zeroing in on his exam once it continued.

 

Occasionally he would have to bite back a wince, or even rock back and forth to ease the pain building in his pelvis, but he pressed on. John had to finish this test if he was going to pass this course. He needed to finish the test, and he needed to get the best grade he could. It was bad enough that he had to quit school for awhile; he needed to do his best while he still could.

 

A small whine escaped his throat, and his chest heaved, but he kept his eyes down. John would finish. He would pass. He would get an _A_. And then he could move on, and he could have and hold his baby. It would work out.

 

* * *

 

 

There were two possibilities: John was simply experiencing intense practise contractions, or he was experiencing slightly early labour. 

 

When John winced and waddled and nearly crashed into his seat, Sherlock knew which possibility had become reality. 

 

John was having his baby. 

 

Sherlock could only watch and clench his fists in sympathy each time John's body tensed with a contraction. He started timing them in between, scratching out the times on a spare exam sheet and becoming ever more anxious as the time between spasms decreased. 

 

Sherlock sat, leant forward in his seat with hands clenching in his lap and waited, watching John struggle to work on his exam as his body and baby betrayed him and demanded his attention. 

 

John wasn't going to make it through the exam period. The baby was coming, and fast. And Sherlock couldn't do a damn thing about it unless John asked.

 

* * *

 

 

John wasn't going to make it. He was near tears, and the most he could do anymore was grip his pencil, or bring it up to his mouth to bite down on it - hard. He pressed a hand to his lower belly, pressing his fingertips into the skin, trying to push the baby up, but to no avail, the infant seemed to slip even more down.

 

John grunted softly and closed his eyes tight. No, he definitely was not going to make it. The contractions had the baby moving very quickly into his birth canal.

 

John felt the tears pricking at his eyes, the pain and pressure becoming too much. And - oh god, he knew he needed to push soon.

 

He glanced up, his face red and chest puffing out with each struggling breath. John looked up with red-rimmed, pleading, eyes, meeting the icy eyes across the room, locking on to them in mutual understanding.

 

John only but on his lip and bit back a whimper before dropping his chin to his chest and crossing his legs. 

 

He needed help. He needed Sherlock.

 

* * *

 

 

A sharp, nervous nod of understanding in John's direction and Sherlock shoved his chair back, clearing his throat and calling out so all his students could hear. 

 

"I'm calling an early time on this exam. Only the questions you have answered will be graded, all unanswered questions will not count against you. Congratulations on making it through the semester. Leave your papers on your desks and leave as quickly as possible." At the blank and confused looks on the student's faces, Sherlock grimaced and repeated himself, louder. "You heard me! Get out, you're done!" 

 

Students began shuffling out of the room, murmuring under their breaths to their peers, but Sherlock couldn't care less at the moment. As he strode to John's desk, he shot off a quick text to the TA instructing him to come to the exam room and collect the papers and to leave them in Sherlock's office. That done, he doubled his pace and bounded up the stairs to where John sat. 

 

The boy was near tears and in obvious pain and discomfort, his hands white-knuckled on his belly and the desk. "Can you make it to an ambulance, if I call one?" Sherlock inquired, dropping to his knees beside John and looking up into the Omega's face.

 

John gripped the edge of the desk with both hands, and openly groaned as most of the other students had already left. He kept his head forward and unlocked his legs, splaying them wide. "Ohh, god, Sh-- Fuck, Sherlock, it's coming, it's coming now, I can't..." He shook his head and growled, his back arching. "I can't make it, I can't... Sher--... Help... Help get me t--" John gasped and couldn't complete his sentence, looking to Sherlock desperately.

 

"Infirmary. Just down the hall, we'll get you there, John. Don't worry." Sherlock reached out and took John's hands, pulling the boy to his feet as gently as he could under the circumstances. The boy's belly was low, lower even than it had been when he came back in from the break - the baby had dropped, was working its way into John's birth canal. _I'm so sorry,_ Sherlock thought, but bit his lip and guided John slowly out of the row of seats and up the few stairs out into the hallway.

 

John struggled with each step and leaned heavily on Sherlock, entering the hallway and getting startled looks from the few students who remained.

 

His knees buckled slightly and he collapsed into the wall, gripping Sherlock's arm. The standing position only dropped the baby lower, he felt it, just there, ready to make his way out of John's body, and he knew he needed to push, soon. "I can't make it, Sherlock, I need to... Oh Christ, it's _coming now_ , right now!" He snapped his eyes shut and grunted shaking his head. "Can't make it. Can't. Need to push."

 

Sherlock nodded and readjusted his grip on John, pulling the boy up with an arm wrapped 'round his waist. The infirmary was up a flight of stairs, and John was right, he couldn't make it. But they needed some sort of privacy, so where to go - 

 

A janitor's closet, just up a few more steps to their right. Door hanging slightly ajar, which mean the cart was out for use, giving them space. "Not ideal, but it'll have to do," Sherlock murmured, and hauled John the last few steps forward, nearly shoving him into the empty closet in his haste. He closed the door behind them both and made sure it was secure before turning his attention to  John, who was heaving and grunting in front of him. 

 

Sherlock rucked the boy's jumper up to bare his belly, and quickly undid John's trousers and pulled them down. "Tell me what you're feeling," Sherlock demanded.

 

"He's there, he's there, Sherlock," John whined. It hurt to keep his legs together, but it was necessary to get his trousers down, and as soon as they went past his knees, John spread his legs and pressed his hands to the wall. He leaned over and pushed his bum out, moaning and trembling.

 

John felt his entrance widen just slightly and his legs shook. "Coming, coming now, need to... can I push, please, need t'get him out." He begged.

 

Sherlock didn't respond, but slid his hand up John's thigh and into his entrance. He nodded then and withdrew, kneading the tense muscles. "Yes, John, you're dilated, I think. Probably more than. I honestly can't tell." He swallowed. "Not that sort of a doctor. But you've been in labour for hours, so push. Go on."

 

John pressed his eyes tight and felt the tears streak down his cheeks. His thighs trembled and he braced himself as well as he could with his hands on the wall, leaned over. "'M scared," he choked out, trying to look back to Sherlock but failing. "Wh-what if... What if I can't do it, Sherlock, I... I'm not ready, I'm not, I can't have him yet... N-not ready..."

 

Sherlock pushed himself to his feet and took John's face between his palms, tilting the boy's chin up and looking into his eyes. "You are ready, and so is he. You've done so well, been so strong." Sherlock nodded and wiped a tear from John's left eye, brushing his thumb along the damp lashes. "Just one last struggle, and you'll have your baby. You _can_ do it, John."

 

John shook his head and a sob escaped through his grit teeth. "I can't, I'm... _I'm_ not ready, I can't take care of him, Sherlock, I can't do it on my own! I'm scared, I'm so scared, I--" He broke off and dropped his chin to his chest, his body contracting. John couldn't wait anymore, and he bore down, crying out in surprise of his own strength, his body shaking with exertion. "H-he's coming, ohh!"

 

Sherlock's heart throbbed painfully in his chest. Truthfully, he had no doubt that John could care for his baby alone, or at least, with the help of his friends. But Sherlock wanted to be part of that support…

 

He shook his head and leant closer to John, his hand cradling the back of John's skull as the boy bore down and worked to push his baby out. "I want to help you," he murmured. "I do want to be there. Here. With you. And I know you're scared," he continued, raising his voice as he dropped back to kneel between John's legs, waiting and watching for the baby to crown, "but it's okay. You're going to be a father. You're allowed to be scared." 

 

Sherlock swallowed and slid his hand up once more to feel between John's legs, at the swollen and stretching flesh. "But push, John, he's counting on you. He needs you to be his strong daddy. Push, hard!"

 

John blurted an ugly sob. He heaved his breaths and his hands grasped for something sturdy. He found a supply shelf and leaned on it instead, spreading his legs further apart. John pushed again, a deep groan in his throat escalating and growing louder as he pushed harder and harder.

 

He was depending on Sherlock to help, to catch, to support. And God, was he lucky to have him.

 

"Close. He's... F-feels close, is he... C-can you see him...?"

 

"Not just yet, but I'm at a bad angle. I can tell he's getting close, you're stretching." Indeed, John's entrance was pulling wide, bulging as the mass of his baby's head pushed downwards and outwards. Each heaving breath and push moved the baby downwards even more, and as Sherlock watched, he began to see his skin spreading and rounding as the baby began to crown. "Good, John, crowning. Keep going, you're doing well."

 

John cried harshly for a moment, spreading his legs even further apart, fighting the urge to drop down to a squat; Sherlock needed to be able to see.

 

The boy pushed again, long and hard, grunting with each strain, closing his eyes to block out the drip of sweat. He felt it now, the stretch, the squeezing of a head through his passage, and he could feel it pushing forth. A quick breath and a hard shove had the baby's head bursting free, and John's legs shook with relief. "O-oh God, I'm having a baby... It's... Oh God, it's coming out, he's coming, Sherlock..."

 

Sherlock nodded and gripped John's trembling thigh to steady the shaking Omega. His other hand cupped the baby's emerging form, supporting the head - full, dark hair, _oh god_ \- and making certain that the cord wasn't wrapped around its neck. 

 

A tentative smile spread fleetingly across Sherlock's face as he glanced up at John. "It all looks good, keep pushing and you'll have your baby, your son."

 

John inhaled, exhaled, inhaled, exhaled, and bore down again, straining and gripping the shelf in front of him until his knuckles went nearly translucent. John stopped pushing with a gasp and whimpered, shaking his head. "I can't do this, I can't, Sherlock, I... I'm tired... He won't... come out..."

 

A brief shot of panic raced through Sherlock's bloodstream and he shook his head almost violently. "Yes you _can_ do this, John, you have to, your son's depending on you. I can see his shoulders, give me another hard push and I'll do what I can to help." Sherlock was stroking John's shaking thighs with both hands supportively. "You can do it, John, you've been so strong. Just a little while longer."

 

John whined and shook his head. It hurt, god, it hurt, and he didn't want to do this anymore. This shouldn't be happening to him, he should be in a hospital bed, with drugs, and Sherlock should be beside him, holding his hand...

 

Yes. Yes, he should, shouldn't he?

 

John closed his eyes and pressed his forehead to the shelf, and he gasped when he felt the baby turning inside of him. "Christ, ow, ow, ow, god..." He moaned and his legs continued to tremble, but John gave a long, hard, shove, feeling as he widened impossibly to make room for one shoulder, then two, and he felt the baby stay stubbornly there. "Sh-Sherlock, catch him, he's... coming..."

 

John pushed again and held his breath, ready to push until his - no- their baby boy was free from his body. He stopped and panted roughly, before pushing again with a determined grunt. "Here... he comes..."

 

"Oh my god," Sherlock whispered, grasping the baby's tiny shoulders with his fluid-slick hands as John's body pushed the infant out. It didn't take long for the rest of the body to slide free, a rush of birth fluids splashing against the floor and wetting Sherlock's legs but there was a _baby_ , a tiny brand-new human in Sherlock's arms, still attached to his father's body by a thick umbilical cord. The infant boy's face was scrunched in a silent yell, and Sherlock couldn't breathe until the silence broke with a wet cry. 

 

He looked up to John through blurred vision and took in the boy's exhaustion, exertion, and nervousness, all washed to the side by the look of pure joy on his face. He rose from his crouch and waited until John reached out to hand him the crying infant. "Your son, John."

 

John, bewildered, reached out with shaky arms and took the newborn hesitantly, gasping softly as he felt the weight of his new baby boy rest in his arms. "O-oh, god," John said breathlessly, and held onto the infant, keeping him pressed to his chest, hoping his jumper could provide some warmth.

 

The little boy gave a whine of displeasure from being shoved out of his home, and his limbs flailed for a moment before curling up and turning his face into John's chest, only snuffling in irritation.

 

"Oh my god, look at you," John whispered, his mouth curling into a smile, his red face soaked in tears. "Look-- Sherlock, look at all of his hair... Oh, h-he's..." The boy sobbed and shook his head in disbelief, before looking to Sherlock. "H-help me down, I can't... stand any longer..."

 

"Oh," Sherlock murmured. "Of course." He looked around for a cushion of some sort and was glad to find a folded stack of old towels on a top shelf. Hoping they hadn't been used to clean up chemical spills and then cleaned improperly, Sherlock set them on the floor and then guided John slowly down on shaky legs to rest. 

 

The umbilical cord still hung between John's body and the baby's, but it could wait a little longer before needing to be cut. John was still shaking, too cold, on the floor, and Sherlock didn't hesitate to take off his suit jacket and drape it over John's legs. 

 

Kneeling down at John's feet, a safe distance away from the new father and his baby, Sherlock smiled. "You did very well. I'll…call the ambulance now, shall I?" He drew his mobile out from his pocket, but paused, holding it in his hands as he watched John and the baby.

 

John gave a half-hearted nod, still completely enraptured with the baby in his arms. "Christ, you're a handsome little man," he said, tears unrelenting. "You look so much like your Pa--" John broke off awkwardly and swallowed thickly. He lowered his eyes, watching as the baby boy curled and uncurled his fingers, and squeezed his eyes shut at the bright light.

 

He gave a soft laugh, but let it fade, finding such an action only made his body sore. "You just weren't going to wait for me to finish my test, were you? Let's hope your Papa goes easy on me when he grades it; I was too focused on you to think about significant figures." John smiled wanly, glancing up at Sherlock and locking eyes with him. "If…he still wants to be your Papa, I mean," he whispered hesitantly.

 

Sherlock's mobile clattered to the floor and lay there, ignored, as Sherlock closed his eyes. His smile turned downwards in the way smiles do when one is trying not to cry, and he sniffed, nodding jerkily. He bit his lip and his shoulders trembled for a brief moment as he collected himself. 

 

"P…papa. Can adjust test scores based on distractions. Just this once. John-" he choked out, and opened his eyes to look at them both; his lover, and his son. He shifted and reached out for John, desperate happiness making his hand shake.

 

John licked his lips, tasting his tears and sweat, before he shifted the baby better into one arm and reached the other out to grasp Sherlock's hand, fingers gripping tight as an affirmation.

 

John tugged on him lightly, inviting the man to come close, and sit beside him and watch their newborn son. "Look what we made, Sherlock. Look at this magnificent-- god, perfect little bugger we made. He's beautiful, Sherlock, christ..."

 

John trailed off, leaning onto Sherlock's shoulder and gazing down at the baby boy, brushing his fingers over the soft, wet, pink, wrinkled, perfect skin, and pressed a kiss to the little one's forehead. "I love you. I love you so much, my baby boy. God, you're more than I could have asked for." John sniffled and closed his eyes, pressing his lips to the tiny head over and over, before he settled back into the man's shoulder once more. "And I love _you_ , Sherlock Holmes. I think... I have for a long time now. But I'm just now realising it. I'm... I'm sorry. I'm so sorry."

 

Tears fell unbidden from Sherlock's eyes as he looked down at the baby wriggling in John's arms. John was enamoured, and Sherlock was getting there, still trying to come to terms with the fact that John wanted him, forgave him for his stupidity and ignorance. And when John said he loved him, all Sherlock could do was try not to cry too loudly, pressing his face against John's head and shoulders and letting his tears soak into the slightly damp jumper. 

 

 _God, John, you're beautiful, and so is he, I love you both, don't apologise,_ I _should be the one apologising, I was so stupid. I love you, I love you -_

 

Sherlock only realised that he was speaking out loud when John's hand squeezed his own tight, and a dam inside Sherlock broke and the tears fell even harder as he kissed John's temple, and forehead, and cheek and ear and jaw and neck. "God, I missed you, I'm so sorry," he said brokenly, his chest aching with fullness as the missing pieces clicked back into place.

 

"It's all right, it's all right," John said hushed. "It's all right now, Sherlock. It is. We're all right." John nuzzled his nose into the man's curls, inhaling his calming scent, but snapped back when the baby began whimpering. Hungry, no doubt. John rocked the little one and blew out a breath, before continuing to beam at the boy who'd been wriggling around in his belly for almost nine months. "Sherlock. Sherlock, before you call for an ambulance... He needs a name. Let's name our son, love."

 

"Felix," Sherlock said, after a pause, looking down at the whimpering baby. "Lucky and prosperous. Happy." _Like me_ , Sherlock thought. _For the first time in a long time, happy. And with John…lucky._


	18. Chapter 18

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's done, it's done.   
> Everything's done.   
> Should clear up all loose ends (but one. But there wasn't really a way to work that particular one in so just run on the assumption that it's no longer a problem, eh?)   
> Thank you all for your dedicated readership. Leslie and I greatly appreciate it.   
> Cheers,   
> Anna B.

Little Felix Timothy Watson checked out with an excellent bill of health, despite being born in the supply closet of a university. His vitals were excellent, as were his Daddy's, and both got a good afternoon's sleep after the event. And Papa was close by to make sure new father and baby were both sought after and happy.

 

Not twenty four hours later, John was wheeled out of the hospital with his son in his arms and into a waiting cab. Sherlock opened the door and helped him settle Felix inside the baby seat he'd purchased that morning, and John was assured that Sherlock had arranged for all the things John had bought for the baby were now in 221B Baker street, where they belonged. 

 

Felix didn't fuss as John buckled him in, but that was probably because the little boy was mostly asleep. John smiled and scooted over a bit further to make room for Sherlock, and he slipped a finger into his son's fist before smiling at the man. "Going home," John sighed. "I'm finally going... home."

 

Sherlock smiled and held John close, the warmth of little Felix almost tangibly radiating out from his tiny, bundled body. "Home for a good rest, and I'll be at your beck and call. You need time to recuperate, though you pulled through incredibly well considering the circumstances." 

 

Felix snuffled quietly in the car seat, and Sherlock's smile widened. "Our sleepy little boy, seeing home for the first time. Good baby, aren't you?" Sherlock cooed, and then made a face when he realised he was using baby talk on his own child. "I'll have to start reading and playing lullabies for him. The first year is one of the highest opportunities for early cognitive development."

 

John grinned and shifted slightly with a wince. "Yep, still a little sore. Okay, more than a little." He smiled sheepishly and stroked a thumb over Felix's fist. "You came fast, though, so I can't complain too much. Nice and easy for your Dad, eh?" John glanced over at Sherlock and pressed a kiss to his jaw. "And you, too. You handled the situation very well."

 

John sighed and looked out the window, smiling. "It's a beautiful day. A good omen, I think, don't you?"

 

"I don't know that it's an omen, but it's certainly a welcome respite from the foul weather," Sherlock replied. "But to be honest, I'm more focused on what's inside the car than out, today."

 

John smiled and gripped Sherlock's hand, his eyes bright as he looked down to their sleeping baby boy in favour of the London cityscape.

 

John laughed when he saw the familiar building in the distance, and found he couldn't be happier. "Let's get our boy settled into his new home."

 

Though he knew it was probably overkill, Sherlock insisted on carrying both John's bag, slung over his shoulder, and the car seat, into the flat. John walked with a slight limp, the reminder of a short trauma two days ago that, with proper care, wouldn't bother him for much longer. His sweaters were still rounded over his stomach, his belly still swollen and puffy beneath the cloth. John, as he walked in front of Sherlock, looked tired, as he ought to, but happier than he'd seemed in weeks. 

 

Felix made soft smacking noises as Sherlock settled his seat onto the sofa. The ex-professor knelt in front of the baby and ran his fingers down the infant's face, grinning widely as the infant turned his face into the touch. "I think Felix and Daddy both need a good cuddle and a nap," Sherlock remarked as John sank onto the couch next to the baby carrier.

 

"If by a good nap you mean sleep for the next four days, then yes," John joked, stroking a hand over his pooched middle, and carefully unbuckled the newborn from the seat, lifting him out to bring Felix to his chest. He smiled sheepishly when he realised Sherlock had been trying to bond with him. "Sorry. Just... need him close."

 

He pressed gentle kisses to Felix's forehead and leaned into Sherlock once he sat as well, and he exhaled gently. "God, we're here. _He's_ here. Seems crazy. He was just in my belly two days ago. Two days ago we were still..." He trailed off and shook his head. "I'm... I'm glad we're okay now. That... we can be a family."

 

Sherlock watched as John pulled the baby close to his chest. He moved the car seat and climbed up next to the Omega, pulling his knees up and leaning over to watch Felix. 

 

"I'm glad we're okay, too," Sherlock said quietly, and went silent for a few moments before speaking again. "I missed you, when you were gone. It felt wrong. _I_ felt wrong. I'm. Glad you're back."

 

John nodded and yawned, relaxing against the Alpha, gently rocking the already asleep Felix. "You should-- mm. You should bond with him. While I sleep."

 

John stayed silent for a while, and his arms went still, his only movement the steady rise and fall of his chest. Sherlock assumed he had fallen asleep, until a soft voice broke through.

 

"Then maybe after you should bond with me."

 

* * *

 

 

_[Sally Donovan deleted the post._

_Sally Donovan did not complete uni.]_

* * *

_[THREE MONTHS LATER]_

 

Mycroft Holmes rang the doorbell impatiently, tapping his brolly against his foot as he waited for Sherlock to answer the damned door. Fourteen months out of the country and no communication from his younger brother - he could only hope that the man hadn't fallen back into…old habits. 

 

His phone buzzed, and Mycroft picked it up, flicking to the text. _Just come inside, it's unlocked. -SH_ He huffed an impatient breath and opened the (indeed) unlocked door and mounted the stairs. He entered the flat, looking instantly towards the couch, where he was certain Sherlock would be. However, his attention soon turned to the kitchen, where the sound of a coo…

 

"Yes, do come in, Mycroft, we're just sitting down for a little late lunch." Sherlock was leaned over the table, spooning what looked like mashed apples into the mouth of a dark-haired, chubby baby, while a young man looked on, smiling. 

 

"So you're Mycroft, then? Nice to meet you, I'm John Watson. And this is little Felix, yeah, aren't you? My good little boy," the boy - John - crooned, lifting a napkin to wipe dribbles off the baby's chin. 

 

"Not a client, Mycroft, my mate," Sherlock interrupted, glancing up at his gobstruck brother, answering his unasked question. "Why don't you have a seat before you end up on the floor." 

 

Mycroft sat. 


End file.
